hydratrashmeme | Trash Party Dumpster #1

Trash Party Dumpster #1

(Will be continued in a Dumpster #2 post if by some unholy hell-miracle this post hits the 5000-comment limit.)

Filthy anon dumpster for sad hobos to fling moldy pizza crusts, raccoon eye makeup tips, and garbage about their sad trash kinks at each other.

AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. One hundred percent Hydra Party Favor Bucky Barnes, Is It Sexy Violence Or Violent Sex?, and Bad Guys Do Bad Things To Your Faves: Winter Soldier Edition. BLANKET NON-CON/DUB-CON WARNING, not safe for work, not safe for life, not safe for anyone, read at your own risk ~~of becoming one of us~~.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, etc. are off-topic.

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GO TO TOWN, TRASHBABIES.

Unholy hell-miracle achieved! Round 1 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 2.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

“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.”

----

(help this is rapidly turning into a Thing)

the cage held tight under his arm - the human one, for some reason.

Nice touch, not that the whole thing isn't grand.

Thank you :) As a random bit of trivia, Bucky carries the cage on his non-augmented side to offset the weight of his prosthesis.

Oh! I imagined that it was because he felt emotionally attached to it because it's his source of comfort and safety.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (3/?)

(Anonymous) - 2014-11-18 23:23 (UTC) - Expand

This is rapidly becoming one of my favorite things in the trash pile!!! I am glad it is becoming a thing. In fact here are some trash things for you: an empty milk carton, a broken lawn chair, and 18 back issues of Dog Fancy magazine from 1987-1989.

“Whatever they have, it’s not theirs to keep. So anything you give them, you have to take it away.”

damn that's cold

Oh god ouch this hurts so good. Damn your writing is amazing anon!

Please, by all means, let it turn into a Thing.

Your Pierce and Brock voices are fantastic I can't even.

---

“The fuck is that?” Rollins asks the second they roll up to the loading dock, gaping at the giant mesh of wire cradled lovingly under the Soldier’s arm.

“Don’t ask,” Brock mutters, though that’s a lost fucking cause. Rollins looks like a thug, but he’s one of the most seasoned operatives on their squad. He and Brock go back to initiation.

“Get your shit set up,” he barks at the Soldier. To Rollins, “I’ll explain on the way.”

The Soldier confirms in Russian and leaps into the back in a single, explosive motion. Harper and Mitchell nearly give themselves concussions trying to get the hell out of his way.

“Up against the crates,” Brock orders. The Soldier affirms by whirling his precious package into place. He begins to set it up immediately, a reverse blur of how he’d taken it down, as precise and efficient as you’d assemble a gun.

Brock hangs to the rear bumper, watching for activity, but there aren’t any eyes to worry about. The van is backed up all the way to the loading door and flanked by a dumpster to cover their movement.

See this, this is why the bank mimes are so fucking offensive. They could have just rolled in and out. None of this Peewee ties and butler gloves shit.

“...is that seriously a cage?”

Brock snaps to the inside of the van. The whole back has been gutted to accommodate their gear, and now, the Soldier’s own personal freakshow. Mitchell is rucked up against the back of the driver’s side bucket seat, eyes as wide as saucers.
“I said,” Brock growls. “I’ll explain on the way.”

Mitchell is the greenest of them, maybe twenty-seven. Thinks he’s hot shit cause he’s good at interception; not seasoned enough yet to realize he can’t hack the Asset. He’ smart enough to shut his pie-hole though. He knows he doesn’t fill the hole that Wilkins left, and he’s terrified of pissing Rollins off.

The Asset is already in his little cage, curled up in full gear like the world’s most murderous pound puppy. The front door is hanging open, rattling a little with the thrum of the engine. The other new-ish guy, Harper, is watching every twitch. He’s also young but he came over from STRIKE Two, more than six ops ago. He knows enough to leave well enough alone.

Brock slams the back doors shut on them, one wing at a time.

“Buckle up, bitches,” he tells the blackout windows. “STRIKE, moving out.”

He swings up to claim shotgun and gives the official order to roll out. He and Rollins are the most senior, so they’re taking first rotation up in the actual seats. He turns around to make sure everyone’s settled, though, because he’s not completely unsympathetic to the poor sobs riding bitch.

“You good back there?” he calls out. Two voices affirm, plus the Soldier’s confused Russian. The Soldier doesn’t always parse casual sentences.

“We got a long ride ahead of us,” Brock says. “Twenty four hours to San Antonio, standard four hour rotation. We’re driving straight through, so use the head if you need a pit stop.”

Mostly for the Soldier’s benefit. The Soldier also doesn’t always get the subtleties of civilized human behavior, like not pissing in the corner of the stakeout apartment you’re sharing with three other guys. He’ll bury his shit if it’s upwind, like a cat, but that’s about the best he can manage on his own.

“Mission briefing will come in at 19:00. We should be somewhere outside Knoxville.” Brock nods at the sat phone. “Until then, play with your phones, play with yourselves, whatever.”

“You going to explain the deal with Terminator?”

He should have figured Mitchell wouldn’t let it go. Impatient kid, face only a mother could love. Sort of weasley-pointy, with hair that always looks this side of wet. Didn’t help that he’s taken a Cocktail to the chest at some point, got a mess of scars that he hides with turtlenecks. Rollins calls him “Steve Jobs” when he’s being a prick.

“I was getting to that,” Brock snaps. “But basically? Don’t fuck with him.”

“You don’t want to stick your dick in that level crazy,” Rollins adds, because he’s always being a prick.

I'm stating this officially.

I don't know who started it, but I am guilty as well...

none of us can write Rollins without him saying -

"The fuck?"

or

"The fuck you doin?"

or

"The fuck is goin' on?"

or

"The fuck is that?"

I love it.

Yes oh my god.

Also this entire fic has the working name "what the fuck is this/that/the other thing" jsyk

flanked by a dumpster to cover their movement.

that pretty much describes all activity on this meme.

omg I cried when i read this comment lmao. so accurate

Cocktail to the chest at some point

someone help me out here. I'm not hep to it...

Poster apologizes for the lack of the word "Molotov". (Poor man's fire bomb.)

Re: Fill: Pedigree (4/?)

(Anonymous) - 2014-11-19 07:59 (UTC) - Expand

I love how this isn't even about Bucky. The soldier and his crate and whatever crazy-ass shit is going on is just part of working for Hydra. I really enjoy how businesslike and casual the whole tone is -- your Rumlow voice is a joy.

I love the Soldier's confused Russian and I love the way Rumlow has to structure his orders to make sure they make Asset-Sense. I love everything.

Wow the team dynamics are so clear and well written. Also great note that Rollins may look like a thug but he's got to be pretty sharp to be where he is. And man the newbie is gonna die horrible isn't he? (Awesome work dude)

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.

----

putting a towel over the cage lol lol

Seeing how protective the soldier is of his few "belongings" is devastating to my heart.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (5/?)

(Anonymous) - 2014-11-24 06:57 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Pedigree (5/?)

(Anonymous) - 2014-11-25 00:20 (UTC) - Expand

Murder-gimp.

My gifts to you: two packages of Hubba Bubba gum--one unopened, the other missing only piece; fished from a hallway trash can in the ER.

This is so well done that I am actually finding it entertaining and "haha, man, wouldn't it suck to have to go to work with the murder gimp" and then I remember that's BUCKY and I feel complicit in the awful dehumanization. So, really, anon, just lovely. I can't wait for more.

Long-suffering Brock is the best Brock.

Oh man, anon, I am loving the fuck out of this.

One of the things you've nailed really wonderfully is the Winter Soldier having a sort of... precarious position within Hydra that defies easy hierarchical classification.