Brock’s palms go slippery on the curve of the Camelbak.
“This is your treat,” he says firmly. He gives the bottle a hard shake. The Soldier’s visible eye rolls, focuses somewhere beyond his shoulder.
Fuck, fuck, triple-fuck.
The Camelbak hits the floor as his shock sticks leap into his hands, charging up to full in the second it takes to blink. A normal human’s in fibrillation at three hundred milliamps across the chest. He’s not sure what the Soldier’s built from, but he prays they don’t have to find out what kills him.
Brock steps forward with both batons ready, but the Soldier doesn’t even cringe at the promise of lightning. He makes a distant noise and glances back and forth between the bottle and the chips. He doesn’t ask again, but the question is clear in his eyes.
“He was like this when we came in,” Harper hisses.
“Kept asking for a treat,” Mitchell says. “We thought maybe if we gave him something…”
The driver’s side door opens with a loud creak and Brock nearly bites off his own fucking tongue. Harper and Mitchell’s hands fly to their Glocks, unnerved by the interruption. The Soldier ignores all three of them and perks hopefully in that direction.
“Everything okay back there?”
Rollins leans over the center console, eyes narrowed in on Brock’s crackling batons, the comparative stillness inside the cage.
“Yeah,” Brock swallows. “Dealing with a situation. Get us out of here, we’ll switch drivers on the road.”
To his credit, Rollins doesn’t grumble, just shuts the hell up and kicks the engine.
“Two minutes behind,” he announces, which sounds like he’s bitching, but he looks for Brock’s face in the rearview.
Brock signals back with a tiny head shake. All options are bad when it comes to the Soldier malfunctioning, but given his pick he’d rather it happen far the fuck away from cameras. If they have to discipline him, they can pull off at a deserted exit.
The Soldier is staring at the chip pile again like he’s one stop short of pissing himself with excitement. He’s on his hands and knees, making the whole cage sway with anticipation, and there is no way they’re going to get this back on track without addressing the conflict in direction. There’s a reason they tell you the Soldier’s high-maintenance. All it takes is one misstep and he jams - or goes off. And after everything he’s read about this new conditioning...
Brock clicks off the juice and flips his batons back into their holsters.
“Eat your lunch first,” Brock says, bending down to pick up the shake. “Then you can have dessert. I mean, your ‘treat’.” Christ, it’s not even been five hours and he’s already sick of the puppy talk.
The magic word seems to have the desired effect, though. The Soldier crawls dutifully out of the cage, just far enough to reach for his disgusting shake. Brock tries not to fumble as that metal deathtrap hand brushes over his decidedly not-impervious human one. He has seen this fucker rip the hatch clean off a fucking tank; he has zero illusions about his knuckles’ chances.
Harper and Mitchell are still as death, still gripping their pieces like a lifeline. They all watch with bated breath as the Soldier draws the bottle close, clicks the spout up, sniffs it - then folds himself back into his cage, wrapped around the Camelbak like a baby with his binkie.
A cold wash of relief plunges down his back and Brock sways with the motion of the van. He catches himself against the gun rack, uses the momentum to round on the fucking shit-for-brains he has for operatives.
“Next time he does anything remotely off message? You call me,” he growls at Harper and Mitchell. “I don’t give a shit what it is. Because believe me, that is one gun you do not want to see misfire.”
Even Mitchell has the decency to look cowed. They both fall all over each other to apologize, neither looking too hard at Brock, or each other.
“We weren’t sure what’s supposed to be standard,” Mitchell admits. “With the - cage thing and all.”
“I know,” Brock concedes. “I’m working on a cheatsheet.”
Again, that vague uneasy feeling. He’s starting to wonder if there’s a reason Pierce sent them out into the field without a complete operating manual, if there’s a reason they’re driving themselves. He wonders who he’s pissed off lately, and how.
The Soldier, on the other hand, seems to be having a religious experience balled up in his stupid kennel. He bolts his nasty shake in several long pulls, looking for all the world like God just came in his mouth. He even unscrews the top and deep throats the residue off the inside straw.
“Damn,” Mitchell whispers reverently. The Soldier blinks up at him with white froth still on his chin, which even elicits a snicker from Harper.
“Treat,” the Soldier says again, reaching for his pile of chips. He stops just shy of touching, though, and looks to Brock for confirmation. Completely back on target, looking to his mission commander for direction. As bizarre as this protocol is, it seems to be working. He just wishes it weren’t also creepy as shit.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Brock says, and see it’s all perfect, the way it should be, except for the part where he has to light R&D on fire. “Uh, ‘good boy’.”
The Soldier visibly shivers, which is just icing on this entire fucked up cake. The corners of his lips twitch up, and he inserts a chip between his lips where the curve of a smile should be. Brock wonders if this is the Soldier’s approximation of happiness.
“You get sick from those, it’s not my problem,” he tells the Soldier. “You puke, you clean it up.”
The Soldier seems to take his warning seriously. All traces of good humor disappear and he nods once, very solemnly, and pulls the chip out of his mouth to examine it. He proceeds to dissect them one at a time, licking each side of every chip one by one, breaking them apart to inspect for hidden poisons. By the time he gets around to actually eating any, they’ve been reduced to equal-sized soggy pieces arranged neatly on the top of a napkin, nothing like a potato chip ought to be.
Mitchell and Harper both look vaguely uncomfortable. They keep fiddling with their phones, periodically glancing at the ongoing Lays disaster. It almost makes Brock feel like an asshole.
“They’re safe,” he tells the Soldier gruffly. “You can eat them. You know? Swallow?”
He can feel Rollins opening his big yap and punches the back of the driver’s seat hard right before ‘that’s what she said’ happens again.
The Soldier freezes while Rollins is still cussing Brock out for being a humorless dick, then carefully takes the smallest bit of potato possible. He pops it all the way into his mouth and chews, slowly and thoughtfully. Another follows, and then another, and then - fuck. The Soldier is smiling, actually, honest-to-God smiling like a human being.
“Talk about the uncanny valley,” Mitchell mutters.
Brock just nods, momentarily speechless. He’s always thought the Soldier was attractive - in the way tigers are attractive, or a well made semi-automatic. Like a force of nature: you don’t fuck with it, or it will fuck with you.
Now, those hunter’s eyes are locked on him, aware in a way they usually aren’t. They glitter in the low light, closer to grey.
“Thank you,” the Soldier says softly, in lightly accented but understandable English. It might be the most terrifying thing he’s ever said.
The Soldier continues munching his way through his tiny pile of broken chips, making soft noises just this side of intelligible. When he’s done, he gently folds the napkin up and pulls it into the cage with him, tucks it beneath his head like the world’s tiniest, saddest pillow.
Fill: Pedigree (8/?)
Brock’s palms go slippery on the curve of the Camelbak.
“This is your treat,” he says firmly. He gives the bottle a hard shake. The Soldier’s visible eye rolls, focuses somewhere beyond his shoulder.
Fuck, fuck, triple-fuck.
The Camelbak hits the floor as his shock sticks leap into his hands, charging up to full in the second it takes to blink. A normal human’s in fibrillation at three hundred milliamps across the chest. He’s not sure what the Soldier’s built from, but he prays they don’t have to find out what kills him.
Brock steps forward with both batons ready, but the Soldier doesn’t even cringe at the promise of lightning. He makes a distant noise and glances back and forth between the bottle and the chips. He doesn’t ask again, but the question is clear in his eyes.
“He’s glitching out,” Brock snaps. “You confused him.”
“He was like this when we came in,” Harper hisses.
“Kept asking for a treat,” Mitchell says. “We thought maybe if we gave him something…”
The driver’s side door opens with a loud creak and Brock nearly bites off his own fucking tongue. Harper and Mitchell’s hands fly to their Glocks, unnerved by the interruption. The Soldier ignores all three of them and perks hopefully in that direction.
“Everything okay back there?”
Rollins leans over the center console, eyes narrowed in on Brock’s crackling batons, the comparative stillness inside the cage.
“Yeah,” Brock swallows. “Dealing with a situation. Get us out of here, we’ll switch drivers on the road.”
To his credit, Rollins doesn’t grumble, just shuts the hell up and kicks the engine.
“Two minutes behind,” he announces, which sounds like he’s bitching, but he looks for Brock’s face in the rearview.
Brock signals back with a tiny head shake. All options are bad when it comes to the Soldier malfunctioning, but given his pick he’d rather it happen far the fuck away from cameras. If they have to discipline him, they can pull off at a deserted exit.
The Soldier is staring at the chip pile again like he’s one stop short of pissing himself with excitement. He’s on his hands and knees, making the whole cage sway with anticipation, and there is no way they’re going to get this back on track without addressing the conflict in direction. There’s a reason they tell you the Soldier’s high-maintenance. All it takes is one misstep and he jams - or goes off. And after everything he’s read about this new conditioning...
Brock clicks off the juice and flips his batons back into their holsters.
“Eat your lunch first,” Brock says, bending down to pick up the shake. “Then you can have dessert. I mean, your ‘treat’.” Christ, it’s not even been five hours and he’s already sick of the puppy talk.
The magic word seems to have the desired effect, though. The Soldier crawls dutifully out of the cage, just far enough to reach for his disgusting shake. Brock tries not to fumble as that metal deathtrap hand brushes over his decidedly not-impervious human one. He has seen this fucker rip the hatch clean off a fucking tank; he has zero illusions about his knuckles’ chances.
Harper and Mitchell are still as death, still gripping their pieces like a lifeline. They all watch with bated breath as the Soldier draws the bottle close, clicks the spout up, sniffs it - then folds himself back into his cage, wrapped around the Camelbak like a baby with his binkie.
A cold wash of relief plunges down his back and Brock sways with the motion of the van. He catches himself against the gun rack, uses the momentum to round on the fucking shit-for-brains he has for operatives.
“Next time he does anything remotely off message? You call me,” he growls at Harper and Mitchell. “I don’t give a shit what it is. Because believe me, that is one gun you do not want to see misfire.”
Even Mitchell has the decency to look cowed. They both fall all over each other to apologize, neither looking too hard at Brock, or each other.
“We weren’t sure what’s supposed to be standard,” Mitchell admits. “With the - cage thing and all.”
“I know,” Brock concedes. “I’m working on a cheatsheet.”
Again, that vague uneasy feeling. He’s starting to wonder if there’s a reason Pierce sent them out into the field without a complete operating manual, if there’s a reason they’re driving themselves. He wonders who he’s pissed off lately, and how.
The Soldier, on the other hand, seems to be having a religious experience balled up in his stupid kennel. He bolts his nasty shake in several long pulls, looking for all the world like God just came in his mouth. He even unscrews the top and deep throats the residue off the inside straw.
“Damn,” Mitchell whispers reverently. The Soldier blinks up at him with white froth still on his chin, which even elicits a snicker from Harper.
“Treat,” the Soldier says again, reaching for his pile of chips. He stops just shy of touching, though, and looks to Brock for confirmation. Completely back on target, looking to his mission commander for direction. As bizarre as this protocol is, it seems to be working. He just wishes it weren’t also creepy as shit.
“Yeah, go ahead,” Brock says, and see it’s all perfect, the way it should be, except for the part where he has to light R&D on fire. “Uh, ‘good boy’.”
The Soldier visibly shivers, which is just icing on this entire fucked up cake. The corners of his lips twitch up, and he inserts a chip between his lips where the curve of a smile should be. Brock wonders if this is the Soldier’s approximation of happiness.
“You get sick from those, it’s not my problem,” he tells the Soldier. “You puke, you clean it up.”
The Soldier seems to take his warning seriously. All traces of good humor disappear and he nods once, very solemnly, and pulls the chip out of his mouth to examine it. He proceeds to dissect them one at a time, licking each side of every chip one by one, breaking them apart to inspect for hidden poisons. By the time he gets around to actually eating any, they’ve been reduced to equal-sized soggy pieces arranged neatly on the top of a napkin, nothing like a potato chip ought to be.
Mitchell and Harper both look vaguely uncomfortable. They keep fiddling with their phones, periodically glancing at the ongoing Lays disaster. It almost makes Brock feel like an asshole.
“They’re safe,” he tells the Soldier gruffly. “You can eat them. You know? Swallow?”
He can feel Rollins opening his big yap and punches the back of the driver’s seat hard right before ‘that’s what she said’ happens again.
The Soldier freezes while Rollins is still cussing Brock out for being a humorless dick, then carefully takes the smallest bit of potato possible. He pops it all the way into his mouth and chews, slowly and thoughtfully. Another follows, and then another, and then - fuck. The Soldier is smiling, actually, honest-to-God smiling like a human being.
“Talk about the uncanny valley,” Mitchell mutters.
Brock just nods, momentarily speechless. He’s always thought the Soldier was attractive - in the way tigers are attractive, or a well made semi-automatic. Like a force of nature: you don’t fuck with it, or it will fuck with you.
Now, those hunter’s eyes are locked on him, aware in a way they usually aren’t. They glitter in the low light, closer to grey.
“Thank you,” the Soldier says softly, in lightly accented but understandable English. It might be the most terrifying thing he’s ever said.
The Soldier continues munching his way through his tiny pile of broken chips, making soft noises just this side of intelligible. When he’s done, he gently folds the napkin up and pulls it into the cage with him, tucks it beneath his head like the world’s tiniest, saddest pillow.
Nobody feels like commenting.
**