“All right. So what happens when he goes off the chain? We got some hiking at Nuevo Laredo.”
“He can still operate independently during a mission.” Pierce waves a hand dismissively. “Although, if it’s a question of transport, he can carry his own equipment.”
He drops into a crouch beside the cage, one hand clinging hard to the top corner. Brock tries not to wince as the old man’s knees crack like Rice Krispies.
“I tell you what, it’s hell to get old,” Pierce calls up with a wry smile. He unhooks the flimsy clip that holds the cage door and lets gravity swing it open.
“Pack it up,” he tells the Soldier’s unblinking, unyielding mask. “You have sixty seconds.”
The Soldier uncoils instantly and pushes up onto his hands and knees. The cage is just barely tall enough to accommodate him on all fours, maybe four centimeters of clearance at the top. He scrambles out so fast he leaves a chunk of hair behind, caught in the junction of two crossing bars.
Jesus.
“If he doesn’t move quickly, he’s not allowed to take it,” Pierce says, conversationally. “As you can see, he’s very motivated.”
The Soldier proceeds to dismantle the kennel in seconds, like his goddamn life depends on it. His hands blur over more latches, then the shorter ends fold in, until the entire thing flattens like a cereal box. He springs to attention with the cage held tight under his arm - the human one, for some reason.
“Good.”
Pierce claps a hand down on the Soldier’s shoulder. The Soldier holds perfect, painfully still.
“Agent Rumlow is your mission commander,” the Secretary informs him. He repeats the instruction in Russian, and German for good measure. The Soldier’s generally good with the first two, but Brock appreciates the extra effort. He’d just as soon have the highest chance possible the Asset won’t be tearing off his face.
The Soldier acknowledges in accented Russian, which is of course, more of Brock’s shit luck. He’s fluent, of course - prereq for anyone signing the Asset out - but he’d be lying if he said he looked forward to Russian days. The fucking rrrrrolled r’s feel like he’s choking.
“Two targets, Level 5,” he tells the Soldier. “Five man team, ground approach. ETA thirty-six hours; we’ll brief on the way.”
The Soldier confirms again, barely intelligible beneath his tight mask. Pierce’s lips are tilting into a frown; well, fuck him. This is Brock’s mission now, and he’ll lead it how he wants it. Even if that means addressing the cyborg like a team member.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Pierce says. “See Charlene on your way out; she should have a pamphlet.”
“Yessir.”
The Secretary gives the Soldier one last, grandfatherly pat and withdraws, lingering at the mouth of the alcove. The Soldier’s grip tightens to white knuckled on his cage.
“Oh, and Brock?”
“Sir?”
“I forgot to tell you, the most important thing you have to teach a bird dog.”
Pierce’s eyes gleam in the low light, flicking to Brock, then the Soldier, then the the cage.
“Whatever they have, it’s not theirs to keep. So anything you give them, you have to take it away.”
Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)
“He can still operate independently during a mission.” Pierce waves a hand dismissively. “Although, if it’s a question of transport, he can carry his own equipment.”
He drops into a crouch beside the cage, one hand clinging hard to the top corner. Brock tries not to wince as the old man’s knees crack like Rice Krispies.
“I tell you what, it’s hell to get old,” Pierce calls up with a wry smile. He unhooks the flimsy clip that holds the cage door and lets gravity swing it open.
“Pack it up,” he tells the Soldier’s unblinking, unyielding mask. “You have sixty seconds.”
The Soldier uncoils instantly and pushes up onto his hands and knees. The cage is just barely tall enough to accommodate him on all fours, maybe four centimeters of clearance at the top. He scrambles out so fast he leaves a chunk of hair behind, caught in the junction of two crossing bars.
Jesus.
“If he doesn’t move quickly, he’s not allowed to take it,” Pierce says, conversationally. “As you can see, he’s very motivated.”
The Soldier proceeds to dismantle the kennel in seconds, like his goddamn life depends on it. His hands blur over more latches, then the shorter ends fold in, until the entire thing flattens like a cereal box. He springs to attention with the cage held tight under his arm - the human one, for some reason.
“Good.”
Pierce claps a hand down on the Soldier’s shoulder. The Soldier holds perfect, painfully still.
“Agent Rumlow is your mission commander,” the Secretary informs him. He repeats the instruction in Russian, and German for good measure. The Soldier’s generally good with the first two, but Brock appreciates the extra effort. He’d just as soon have the highest chance possible the Asset won’t be tearing off his face.
The Soldier acknowledges in accented Russian, which is of course, more of Brock’s shit luck. He’s fluent, of course - prereq for anyone signing the Asset out - but he’d be lying if he said he looked forward to Russian days. The fucking rrrrrolled r’s feel like he’s choking.
“Two targets, Level 5,” he tells the Soldier. “Five man team, ground approach. ETA thirty-six hours; we’ll brief on the way.”
The Soldier confirms again, barely intelligible beneath his tight mask. Pierce’s lips are tilting into a frown; well, fuck him. This is Brock’s mission now, and he’ll lead it how he wants it. Even if that means addressing the cyborg like a team member.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Pierce says. “See Charlene on your way out; she should have a pamphlet.”
“Yessir.”
The Secretary gives the Soldier one last, grandfatherly pat and withdraws, lingering at the mouth of the alcove. The Soldier’s grip tightens to white knuckled on his cage.
“Oh, and Brock?”
“Sir?”
“I forgot to tell you, the most important thing you have to teach a bird dog.”
Pierce’s eyes gleam in the low light, flicking to Brock, then the Soldier, then the the cage.
“Whatever they have, it’s not theirs to keep. So anything you give them, you have to take it away.”
----
(help this is rapidly turning into a Thing)