Harper is still staring at the Soldier like he’s the boogeyman and Jesus Christ all wrapped up in one; he looks one stop short of wetting his pants. Not that Brock blames the guy. Harper’s only had one other mission with the Soldier in close proximity, and that had been that shitshow standoff in Belize. The Soldier had wound up storming the compound to drag the target wrong way through a plate glass window because the fucker’s counter snipers had damaged his favorite tripod. Whatever people like to say about cyborg emotions, Brock is pretty sure the Soldier adequately expresses ‘pissed off’.
He pulls out the dossier ‘Charlene’ had handed him on the way out. Photocopies, embossed with ‘Eyes Only’ on every page. The ‘overview’ is entirely too wordy, footnotes on operant conditioning and every other academic detail you do not need in an operating manual, but he’s used to skimming R&D bullshit.
“Regulations are he eats in the cage, sleeps in the cage. As long as he behaves, we leave him to it. And don’t stick anything through the sides. He’s supposed to see this as his personal space. I see your dick through those bars, I’m telling him to cut it off.”
He scans through a few more pages, charts and graphs and extraneous tables, but it seems like he’s got the jist. The Soldier’s supposed to want the cage, feel like it’s his den or docking station or whatever. And from what he’s seen, it works, but…Christ, the implications.
Order comes through discipline, and correction, if necessary. And he’s seen what happens in that chair, when the Soldier needs correction. He not sure he wants to know what it means that they still have to resort to mind games to keep the Asset controlled.
“Hey uh, can he at least take the mask off?” Harper asks.
“Why?”
“Cause that’s creepy as shit?”
Brock’s hand jumps immediately to his baton. He twists sideways in his seat so he can see into the back, but the Soldier hasn’t moved an inch.
“What’d he do?”
“Nothing, I just…” At least Harper has the decency to look embarrassed. “Hate the way he stares at you. You know? Fuckin’ bug eyes.”
He cups his hands around his eyes like the Soldier’s impassive goggles. Mitchell looks up from his iPhone, snorts.
“Fuck off, Mitchell,” Harper snaps. Brock knows how he feels.
“Soldier, remove your face mask and goggles,” Brock orders in Russian. Personally, he doesn’t think it matters much. The Soldier stares whether he’s suited up or not; the difference is whether you can tell he’s doing it. But if Harper feels better seeing those spooky eyes, more power to him.
He’s also pleased to see how quickly the Soldier obeys. The dossier says that if the Soldier doesn’t comply with orders in ‘an acceptable time frame’ (defined as fifteen to sixty seconds), he loses cage privileges immediately. The Soldier must know it, because he practically rips the gear off his face. The cage wobbles alarmingly as he shifts to get the goggle straps, some bars flexing out as his arm draws against them. Not a fancy scifi metal then. Regular aluminum, no heavier than fence wire. It should hold the Soldier about as well as a paperclip.
The Soldier doesn’t stretch outside his boundary though, not even to put the gear away. Instead, he fits his goggles into the curve of his tactical mask, snugs the whole bundle up against his chest. It looks for all the world like a kid hugging a teddy.
His blue, blue eyes stare straight ahead.
“I don’t know if that’s better or worse,” Harper admits.
“We could put a towel over him,” Mitchell suggests.
“What,” Rollins says.
“Like with parrots. Maybe he’ll think it’s bedtime.”
Fucking newbies.
“The Soldier is smarter than a parrot,” Brock says, despite his own suspicions to the contrary.
Mitchell tips his iPhone at the kennel.
“He’s literally hanging out in a cage.”
“I am going to put you in a cage,” Rollins offers. “Agent Rumlow said, don’t stick stuff in there.”
“I meant over the cage! So he’ll think it’s night.”
Brock is starting to wonder when he lost control of this conversation.
“No one is putting anything anywhere,” he snaps.
Rollins mutters something suspiciously like ‘that’s what she said’. Brock ignores the shit out of him.
“Just shut it and leave him alone. I’ll write up what you can do - later.”
Once he gets through this metric fuckload of documentation and makes a few important changes. He’s under no illusions why they gave this entire stack to him. R&D is crap at writing for a field audience; they like it when he “adds his perspective”.
“You got screwed into editing again?” Rollins asks, so pointedly neutral that it’s clear he’s judging the hell out of that.
“Yeah. They want to use this in the field, they need to step up their technical writing,” Brock grunts, and refuses to engage. He’s not going to get into it about whether he should be ‘pushing back’. His role is to keep things in order, and if that means sometimes he gets volunteered for shit not in his job description, whatever. SHIELD’s job descriptions never covered murder-gimps in dog crates, either.
He takes one last look through the back before settling in for the long haul. Mitchell and Harper are mutually sulking at their phones, both turned away from the creepiness of the kennel. The Soldier’s eyes are glued to him, seemingly tracking his every breath. He pulls his gear closer, up under his chin.
“I’m not taking it from you,” Brock mutters. “Not as long as you behave. Please don’t make me have to take it.”
He wonders if he imagines that tiny nod the Soldier gives him before he closes his eyes. The next time he looks back, the Soldier’s breathing is slow and steady.
To Mitchell’s disappointment, the Soldier does not kick his legs in his sleep.
Re: Fill: Pedigree (5/?)
He pulls out the dossier ‘Charlene’ had handed him on the way out. Photocopies, embossed with ‘Eyes Only’ on every page. The ‘overview’ is entirely too wordy, footnotes on operant conditioning and every other academic detail you do not need in an operating manual, but he’s used to skimming R&D bullshit.
“Regulations are he eats in the cage, sleeps in the cage. As long as he behaves, we leave him to it. And don’t stick anything through the sides. He’s supposed to see this as his personal space. I see your dick through those bars, I’m telling him to cut it off.”
He scans through a few more pages, charts and graphs and extraneous tables, but it seems like he’s got the jist. The Soldier’s supposed to want the cage, feel like it’s his den or docking station or whatever. And from what he’s seen, it works, but…Christ, the implications.
Order comes through discipline, and correction, if necessary. And he’s seen what happens in that chair, when the Soldier needs correction. He not sure he wants to know what it means that they still have to resort to mind games to keep the Asset controlled.
“Hey uh, can he at least take the mask off?” Harper asks.
“Why?”
“Cause that’s creepy as shit?”
Brock’s hand jumps immediately to his baton. He twists sideways in his seat so he can see into the back, but the Soldier hasn’t moved an inch.
“What’d he do?”
“Nothing, I just…” At least Harper has the decency to look embarrassed. “Hate the way he stares at you. You know? Fuckin’ bug eyes.”
He cups his hands around his eyes like the Soldier’s impassive goggles. Mitchell looks up from his iPhone, snorts.
“Fuck off, Mitchell,” Harper snaps. Brock knows how he feels.
“Soldier, remove your face mask and goggles,” Brock orders in Russian. Personally, he doesn’t think it matters much. The Soldier stares whether he’s suited up or not; the difference is whether you can tell he’s doing it. But if Harper feels better seeing those spooky eyes, more power to him.
He’s also pleased to see how quickly the Soldier obeys. The dossier says that if the Soldier doesn’t comply with orders in ‘an acceptable time frame’ (defined as fifteen to sixty seconds), he loses cage privileges immediately. The Soldier must know it, because he practically rips the gear off his face. The cage wobbles alarmingly as he shifts to get the goggle straps, some bars flexing out as his arm draws against them. Not a fancy scifi metal then. Regular aluminum, no heavier than fence wire. It should hold the Soldier about as well as a paperclip.
The Soldier doesn’t stretch outside his boundary though, not even to put the gear away. Instead, he fits his goggles into the curve of his tactical mask, snugs the whole bundle up against his chest. It looks for all the world like a kid hugging a teddy.
His blue, blue eyes stare straight ahead.
“I don’t know if that’s better or worse,” Harper admits.
“We could put a towel over him,” Mitchell suggests.
“What,” Rollins says.
“Like with parrots. Maybe he’ll think it’s bedtime.”
Fucking newbies.
“The Soldier is smarter than a parrot,” Brock says, despite his own suspicions to the contrary.
Mitchell tips his iPhone at the kennel.
“He’s literally hanging out in a cage.”
“I am going to put you in a cage,” Rollins offers. “Agent Rumlow said, don’t stick stuff in there.”
“I meant over the cage! So he’ll think it’s night.”
Brock is starting to wonder when he lost control of this conversation.
“No one is putting anything anywhere,” he snaps.
Rollins mutters something suspiciously like ‘that’s what she said’. Brock ignores the shit out of him.
“Just shut it and leave him alone. I’ll write up what you can do - later.”
Once he gets through this metric fuckload of documentation and makes a few important changes. He’s under no illusions why they gave this entire stack to him. R&D is crap at writing for a field audience; they like it when he “adds his perspective”.
“You got screwed into editing again?” Rollins asks, so pointedly neutral that it’s clear he’s judging the hell out of that.
“Yeah. They want to use this in the field, they need to step up their technical writing,” Brock grunts, and refuses to engage. He’s not going to get into it about whether he should be ‘pushing back’. His role is to keep things in order, and if that means sometimes he gets volunteered for shit not in his job description, whatever. SHIELD’s job descriptions never covered murder-gimps in dog crates, either.
He takes one last look through the back before settling in for the long haul. Mitchell and Harper are mutually sulking at their phones, both turned away from the creepiness of the kennel. The Soldier’s eyes are glued to him, seemingly tracking his every breath. He pulls his gear closer, up under his chin.
“I’m not taking it from you,” Brock mutters. “Not as long as you behave. Please don’t make me have to take it.”
He wonders if he imagines that tiny nod the Soldier gives him before he closes his eyes. The next time he looks back, the Soldier’s breathing is slow and steady.
To Mitchell’s disappointment, the Soldier does not kick his legs in his sleep.
----