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.

Organization: hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive maintained by

greenkirtle. If you fill a prompt, drop a link at the fill post. Discussion threads now have a chatter post.

If you want email notifications for new comments here, sign up for a Dreamwidth account and click the little bell icon at the top of this post. To read new comments chronologically rather than in threads, use flat view.

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

**

They’re actually just shy of Knoxville when the encrypted call comes through, which is shit Brock hopes he doesn’t have to explain later. He’s done his damnedest to make up the time they lost during their unscheduled pit stop to switch between him and Rollins (who is currently zonked out drooling against the passenger side window), but the radar alert keeps pinging so many fucking speed traps. Between that, a jack-knifed semi, and the never-ending Tennessee construction, they’re now running almost eighteen minutes behind.

Brock pulls off at the next exit that has a travel plaza and heads for the back section of the parking lot, far enough from the majority of the families running into the attached restaurant, but close enough to other vehicles that they won’t seem like a solitary pedo van. With luck, no one will notice that they’re just sitting here.

The sat phone is one of the almost-modern models, in that it has an attached screen large enough to show a couple headshots side by side. The damn thing still loads incredibly slow, reliant as it is on ancient as fuck satellites. Rumlow picks up the handset for the audio portion, listens for the Mission Commander updates. By the time the full target profiles have downloaded, he’s already swearing inside his head.

“Mariella Costa,” Harper reads, squinting at the tiny font blurred beneath the primary target. “Level Five clearance, Flight Deck access...shit. She was an Insight engineer?”

“Can it and I’ll tell you,” Brock snaps, still straining to listen to the prerecorded message. It pisses him off when they send these ‘tactical updates’ like five seconds before he has to present. He gets the need for security. But would it kill them to give him time to digest? He waits until the message has started to repeat before he hangs up the handset. The profiles stay lit behind him, the literal visages of dead men walking.

Harper, Mitchell, and Rollins shuffle to gather around the screen. The Soldier is the only one missing, curled up in his cage like a big leathery panther.

Christ, he hates his life.

“Here boy,” Brock says through clenched teeth. “Come see this face you gotta tear off.”

The Soldier crawls out of his cage with an odd stiffness, noticeable only because it immediately disappears as soon as he realizes Rumlow is watching. He’s more like a cat in that regard, Brock thinks. Conceal the small stuff, until it hurts so bad you bite the fuck out of people without provocation.

The newly minted rules are taped above his cage, written on the back of a page of MRI results. It’s not a very long list -- mostly, ‘don’t fuck with the cage, don’t feed unauthorized foods, exercise as needed’, and a cheat sheet of all the formalized commands. Brock can see the Wonder Twins have added a couple extras, including “never expose to sunlight” and “never feed after midnight”. Brock bites the cap off a Sharpie and adds ‘don’t fuck with the list, either’. And, because he’s not a completely joyless asshole, he adds “never splash with water”.

He heads back to take his place at the center of the group. The Soldier comes to sit right at his feet, nearly plants his butt directly on top of them. Brock nudges him to the side with the steel toe of his boot. The Soldier scoots where he’s directed, again with that very subtle creakiness. Brock makes a note to exercise him later.

“Primary target is Mariella Costa,” he tells the group. “Former Insight weapons engineer. Called in sick to ‘work from home’ three days ago; supervisor got suspicious when she failed to respond to email.”

He taps the visuals at top half of the screen. Mariella is a muscular, tan woman with a mole on her right cheek and deceptively sweet features. Her profile photo shows her with shoulder-length, wavy dark brown hair, but the inset ‘most recent appearance’ shot from a grainy convenience store camera seems to show that she’s shaved it off.

“Orders are to take this one alive, if possible,” he says, looking directly at the Soldier. “Confirm what she knows before anyone touches her. If we do have to take her out, they want visual proof of execution. Tissue samples, video, the whole nine yards. Basically bring her head on a plate.”

“Damn,” Harper says. “She run out on her boyfriend or something?”

“Or girlfriend,” Rollins mutters. Like he cares. Brock nudges Harper with the edge of his boot, too.

“According to her coworkers, the second target is her boyfriend. Radim Jelinek. Jelinek failed to report to his job at a local hospice over forty-eight hours ago. Intelligence presumes he’s on the run with her.”

He taps the lower half of the screen, highlighting a hefty, bald white man with broad shoulders.

“This one you can kill on sight,” he tells the Soldier.

The Soldier tilts his head and scrutinizes both pictures, drawing his eyes up, down, and around the lines of their individual faces. Brock leaves him to it. He knows from experience the Soldier will memorize until his creepy eyes fall out.

“Inside source says they’ve crossed over to AIM. Requested asylum in exchange for information. Costa was working on long-range targeting, but her other specialty is aerospace engineering. She may have had access to Stark’s turbine schematics. Apparently, she made noise like she wanted to switch to Propulsion. Idiots in charge let her access their server, trying to convince her to join their team.”

“Seriously?” Mitchell groans. “Anybody ever heard of social engineering? Fucking corporate espionage.”

Brock can’t disagree with that.

“Yeah, their asses are grass. Anyway, official story is, she plans to sell those designs to hostile governments.”

He glances down at his StarkPhone to confirm the details. They’d given him the SHIELD-friendly mission package to review before they left. The real reason they’re out here, though - the part that applies to SHIELD’s tentacled underbelly - that they don’t trust in soft copy anywhere. Once the sat phone is switched off, there will be no trace.

“And unofficially?” Rollins asks.

“Unofficially? She’s one of ours. And she left a coded message. She threatened to expose ‘a significant number’ of senior-level members - publicly on the internet - unless her safety is guaranteed. Says if she and her boyfriend both have a place in the new order, she’ll even burn bridges with AIM - give them bullshit and walk tomorrow.”

He pauses a moment to let that sink in.

“...holy shit,” Harper breathes. He’s saying what they’re all feeling. What this chick is trying -- it’s worse than suicide. Suicide, at least you choose the when and how. This engineer, she’ll be lucky if they let her die.

He understands now why this mission earned the Soldier. Whether it requires this much firepower is irrelevant. HYDRA uses its Fist for two reasons, when something needs to be crushed or when it needs to be personal. Costa needs to be crushed, because she’s forgotten: with HYDRA, it’s always personal.

HYDRA is the most jealous bitch there is, and nobody, fucking nobody, leaves her.

Mitchell laughs, reedy and nervous. “Wow. So that’s double jeopardy for how many billion, Alex?”

“Not enough,” Rollins says. “Cause, here we are.”

“Yeah,” Brock agrees. “Piss off HYDRA, piss off AIM - not a great way to stay breathing.”

The Soldier says nothing, still fixated on the glowing images. His nostrils even flare, like he thinks he can pick up their fucking scent from the pixels. God, Brock hates this conditioning, hates it down to his bones. At this point, R&D might even be sacrificing function in the name of their puppy play.

Brock glances at his phone again.

“The targets are holed up in an AIM bunker south of the border. AIM trades with the cartels in Nuevo Laredo, so they’re underground and armed to the teeth.”

“Bunker busters?” Mitchell asks hopefully.

Brock manages not to pull a completely unprofessional face.

“‘Diplomatically complicated’. Preferred that we infiltrate and excise. Job one is setting up a scramble on transmissions,” he says, looking pointedly at Mitchell. “We have to assume as soon as we engage that Costa’s going to try and retaliate.”

Mitchell nods. He raps the side of his jam-box’s generator, the way other people might knock on wood.

“I got sat and mobile covered. Do they have any hard lines? If they got fibre shielded and buried we’ll probably have to cut it.”

“We have a scan of the bunker schematics,” Brock says. “Looks like there’s at least two? And also some nice choke points and blind corners.”

Read: dinner time for the Soldier. He’s a miracle at a distance, but he’ll take you apart just as brutally up close and personal. Worst comes to worst they can find a solid choke point and funnel hostiles through their cyborg grunt grinder.

Rollins strains to peer at Brock’s phone.

“You got clearance to share that with us?”

Brock scowls. “Yeah, I was getting to that. Hang on.”

He taps the series of codes that allows him to broadcast a secure transmission over infrared. For security reasons, his stupid STRIKE app only communicates sensitive data phone-to-phone. He doesn’t have the clearance to transmit over the mobile network.

“Put ‘em up,” he grunts. The team responds by holding up the business ends of their IR readers.

Rollins’ eyes narrow when he opens the brief on his phone.

“Big place,” is all he vocalizes. Brock hears all too well what he doesn’t say. The compound is four levels, huge for an outpost in this region. He wonders if there’s more like them, maybe up over the Canadian border. Now that Tony Stark’s people are obsessed with shutting AIM down in the United States, it looks like they’ve just started setting up shop across the line.

Like fireworks tents, only meaner. According to their roster, this outpost has nearly eighty security personnel on staff; at least a quarter of those decent mercs. Sixteen to one, if the odds were completely stacked against them. Fucking thankfully, they’re not.

“Yeah, it’s a long list,” he acknowledges. “But they’re not all on shift at the same time, and we have an assist. Some of their people are also our people.”

Which is the other reason Costa’s an idiot. Trying to run to AIM, like AIM hasn’t been in HYDRA’s back pocket since it was founded. Lots of governments and think tanks over the years got that special, secret push.

And if they ever get too loud or out of line, they get a harder shove - and fall over.

Brock turns his phone around to highlight the lower right section of the schematic.

“We ingress from the southeast corner,” he says. “Our guys on the inside are working on a door code and cover.”

“We know where they’re holding her?” Mitchell asks.

“Our guys are working on it. For now, assume it’s the lowest level.”

“And the people who work there?” Harper asks.

“What?”

“The security, okay, I see the patrol stations marked.” Harper squints at his own phone and draws two fingers apart to zoom. “But there’s labs here, they gotta have employees. What about Joe Schmoe who works in Evil Physics, or whatever the fuck AIM does? How are we gonna sneak past with Benji here? He isn’t exactly subtle.”

Fuck. Harper’s back on Belize again, and while Brock doesn’t exactly blame him, the last thing he needs is this bullshit stirring up the group. Mitchell could maybe use some healthy fear, but it bothers him that Rollins is uneasy. It is a big place to take on with just five people. Creepy or not, if something goes sideways, the Soldier might just be the trump card that saves them.

“Belize wasn’t typical performance,” Brock says firmly. “He’s been adjusted.”

“And he glitched out like four hours ago!”

“Because you idiots fed him chips!” Rollins says. Rollins is good at masking fear with pissiness, or indifference, but Brock knows from experience eventually the facade cracks. And they can’t be chipping each other apart now.

They got a job to do, and whatever knots Brock might have in his guts about going in like this -- by ground, with a skeleton team, and the Soldier’s freaky cage rattling every mile along the way -- that pales compared to thought of turning it down. Just look how well quitting turned out for Costa.

“Doesn’t matter who fucked up!” Brock snaps, before Mitchell can open his big mouth too. “The Soldier’s gonna listen this time, okay? He’s gonna be good.”

Brock glances toward the Soldier, hoping that was close enough to the right creepy lingo. He feels his blood turning to ice.

The Soldier is still curled patiently off to the side, exactly where Brock left him, only he’s no longer drooling at the targets. His eerie eyes are fixed directly on Brock’s face with the same intensity. Like he’s also measuring Brock for a coffin.

“How many?” he asks in Russian. His voice sounds like he’s been chewing gravel.

Brock’s whole mouth is running dry.

“How many what?”

The Soldier’s eyes flick to Brock’s StarkPhone, then back to his face.

“How many on each level?”

“Guards? Or...”

“How many total?” The Soldier asks insistently.

Harper and Mitchell are both staring like the Soldier’s grown a second head. Brock’s unsure if it’s because they’ve started Russian lessons, or if it’s because this is the longest discourse they’ve ever heard from the Soldier. Rollins’ hand is shifting ever so slowly toward his Glock.

The Soldier picks up on the hostility and shrinks back slightly, dips his upper body down.

“I’ll be good,” he promises in thickly accented English. “I’ll get them for you. I'll get them.”

Somehow, Brock doesn’t think he means just the targets.

I lllllllooooooovvvvve this!!! The language is SO GOOD. I love how there is so much flavor packed in with the mission lingo. EXCELLENT WORK TRASH FRIEND.

please accept a gift of snotty paper towels, a hair clot, and one cheap sock with a hole in the heel.

Thank you trash friend! Hopefully the plot parts will not be too boring because I also want to show the Soldier being a terrifyingly competent trash disaster.

AAAAAH OMG.

NOW it's Xmas. :D I was desperately waiting for this, and this part was somehow extra-awesome.

Thank you! Yes sorry, I decided in 2k15 to stop being a little bitch and just post more often.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (9/?)

(Anonymous) - 2015-01-09 17:31 (UTC) - Expand

I was JUST thinking about this story yesterday and wondering if it would be continued and then you posted and it was like a beautiful dream come true! This is so awesome I can't wait to see the asset get all murdery (and of course, the trash)!

Thank you! Sorry it is taking so long to get to the murder-y parts, I will do my best not to suck at action ;)

“I’ll get them for you. I'll get them.”

Oh wow, now I could be reading into this too much, and in case just don't listen to me, but I'm now seriously interested in knowing what kind of reward the Soldier is going to expect at job done. :D:D:D

Yesss uh hopefully the end of this will be sufficiently sadwrong.

This is absolutely gorgeous. You have this wonderful mix of pure horror (I'll get them for you) mixed with humor (don't feed after midnight) mixed with intrigue and greatness. I can just feel Brock's exasperation, the team's worry, their horror at being around the Soldier and these conditions and it's great. You are incredible.

Thank you! Yes this is p much the family road trip from hell: Mom, Dad, annoying teenage brothers, and vicious junkyard wolf dog :D

"I'll be good. I'll get them for you." GOD. This fill continues to slay me.

Also, I very much appreciated the Gremlins references. A+, author anon!

Thank you! I figure the STRIKE team is generally old enough to remember Gremlins. You don't get to be part of the best of the best too young (though I suspect they have a fairly high rate of attrition ;)

This continues to be one of my favorite fills, goddamn. It sure as shit isn't boring at all, author!anon.

Thank you! Tbh I have worried it will get boring bc it's like...Mission details! Asset hanging onto Subway napkins! Someday there will be actual action too I promise ;)

" Brock makes a note to exercise him later."
LOL, yes please Rumlow.

The way you have Rumlow using 'good boy' and the way the Soldier reacts to it is GOLD. I can't believe how cleverly you put trash hints all over the way while building a super satisfactory long story. The building to it might kill me, but I'm sort of anticipating the end of mission like crazy.

Your Rumlow is magnificently charismatic btw, I adore him.

Thank you - you are kind and you get your wish, next bit is they exercise the Soldier.

(Also I am looking forward to the end of this mission too because laksjdlfkajdf badwrong feelings.)

“Here boy,” Brock says through clenched teeth. “Come see this face you gotta tear off.”

I shit you not I was holding my sides laughing.

Thanks! I feel weirdly bad for Rumlow, he has to deal with all this ridiculous bullshit.

**

The interstate is dark and lonely and their nighttime HUD has kicked in by the time the next update lands. Gives Brock a decent reason to be awake. Logically, they’re far enough into Mitchell’s shift he should be taking advantage of the break. Doesn’t matter what time the clock says: you want to roll STRIKE, you learn how to stay at peak functionality. If that means you sleep from 20:00 to 04:00, fine. If that means you stay up the next two days, great. He’s got both their stash of caffeine and the thrum of a well-tuned engine. He should be able to work with that. Maybe he’s just getting fucking old.

The Soldier’s cage clatters as the van catches what feels like a rumble strip. Rollins’ eyes pop open half a second, then drop right back off. Lucky son of a bitch. He was out cold the second his ass hit the deck, curled up next to the rifle rack like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Harper is asleep too, passed out in the passenger seat.

“Sorry, possum,” Mitchell calls back. The van lurches back into the lane fast enough to slide the cage into Brock’s fucking leg. The Soldier squeaks and jerks his head toward it.

“It’s fine,” Brock says. He shoves the crate back in place with his foot. “Keep going.”

The Soldier is stretched out on the floor of the van, up on his toes and human elbow in a tense one-armed plank position. Sweat is beaded all along his neck, but he hasn’t so much as twitched his metal arm back toward the ground. Its metal fingers are at the Soldier’s temple, held at a stiff left-handed salute.

“And get your ass down,” Brock tells him. Once the core fatigue sets in, the natural tendency is to tilt the pelvis back, use the quads to hold you up.

The Soldier makes the softest of grunts and flexes his hips forward, but he doesn’t complain again. Brock’s starting to think the crate is like the painting in that one old novel; the Soldier doesn’t age or tire, but you hurt the cage, you apparently hurt him.

“He still planking?” Mitchell asks.

“Yeah,” Brock says.

“Damn.”

Brock shrugs. It hasn’t been that long. Most of STRIKE can hold a plank at least fifty-five minutes; forty minutes is the minimum. Course, that’s in straight-armed position, without an extra sixty pounds of metal. Still.

“You know the world record is three hours or something,” Mitchell says, all too casually.

“He’s not holding this for your entire shift,” Brock warns. Once he does get to sleep, Mitchell and Harper get to be de facto in charge of the Soldier, which is a slightly frightening thought. “You don’t want him worn out before we get there.”

Though the bastard might be able to do it, for all the fuck Brock knows. The records say they’ve got the Soldier on some kind of daily multi-hour core training to maintain his trunk strength. Apparently even super cyborgs don’t get to skip ab day: if he weren’t so jacked, his arm might literally rip out of the moorings in his torso. Which, yeah, puts Brock’s fitness into perspective.

He goes back to his phone and flicks through the latest missive, and the resultant timetable update. They’re going to hold at a campground outside San Antonio tomorrow, cross the border under cover of night. Official word is that SHIELD’s stringing AIM along, pulling all the posturing bullshit that Costa would expect -- stalling Costa into thinking AIM is fighting for her. Which gives their guys on the inside time to set up clearance for a few brand new mercenary hires, and shiny all-levels access cards.

Seriously, it’s almost laughably simple. Brock wonders sometimes how much of the world they’ve conquered not by recruiting the biggest baddest muscle, but highly competent and underpaid human resources directors. Also why HYDRA doesn’t skimp on proper team building or initiation. Nobody would ever fuck up STRIKE by showing up with unexpected ‘new recruits’. AIM keeps 25% of their talent freelance? They might as well have signed their own death warrant.

He supposes that’s why it’s worth it putting his time into these new assholes, even if it pisses him off to be on newbie duty. Hell, this whole trip is probably Pierce’s fucked up idea of team bonding. Goddamnit. He’s going to report back to weird bullshit about family road trips in a BMW, isn’t he.

“Google says the world record’s four hours and twenty six minutes,” Mitchell calls suddenly. Which, what the hell.

“Are you fucking Googling and driving?” Brock snaps.

“Jesus Christ, there’s nobody for miles!”

Okay, never mind. Newbie duty: still awful. “You get us pulled over I am personally going to beat your ass.” Phone screens are bright as shit, and cops love to chase easy money.

“I’m just saying, he could beat it.”

“Soldier, push ups,” Brock growls. “On your knuckles. Give me a hundred.”

The Soldier shifts immediately into position, balls up his human fist and drops his nose all the way to the floor. Sweat splatters down to pool beneath his face. At this rate they’re going to have to mop the van to keep it from smelling like a gym.

At least they provided the Soldier with a proper set of gym clothes. The entire crate fiasco had Brock worried about the rest of the Soldier’s gear, but it turns out it’s mostly regulation. Aside from the Soldier’s tac suit, which is one part Kevlar and three parts leather fetish, his kit seems to contain weapons, holsters, and a standard week of clothing: t-shirts and boxers and grey workout pants. No leashes or puppy costumes or any other sick shit. Brock’s uncomfortably aware of his own ‘dog tags’ against his skin, but that’s worlds away from what it would mean to put a collar on the goddamn Winter Soldier.

The Soldier doesn’t even have tags, as far as he’s aware. Some people say if he ever goes down, his arm is rigged to blow.

“One hundred,” the Soldier says quietly in English. Still holding that perfect push up form. Fuck it, Brock’s exhausted, whether his nerves want to let his body sleep or not.

“Sit,” he orders, and the Soldier springs back into an obedient squat. Brock doesn’t know if they taught him to crouch like that, or if he’s too afraid of being caught off guard to let his ass completely touch the ground. Brock rummages through the hygiene crate and tosses the Soldier a towel and a pack of DryBath. They’ll give him a real shower when they’re parked at the campground. For now, the waterless alcohol cleanser should strip off the worst of the funk.

“Clean yourself up,” Brock tells him.

The Soldier blinks. For a long, horrible moment, Brock wonders if the Soldier remembers how to wash. Swear to God, if they recalibrated him so he doesn’t know how to wash his own balls, STRIKE’s next mission is cracking some eggheads.

Thankfully the Soldier is standing up to strip a second later. Brock looks down at his phone before he catches an eyeful of dong.

“Don’t check the rearview,” he warns Mitchell.

“Already got a rear view,” Mitchell says. “Thanks for nothing.”

Brock holds up a very professional middle finger, in case Mitchell is still perverted enough to be watching the back. The Soldier’s sweaty clothes hit the floor as a small pile. Brock notices they’re folded out of the corner of his eye.

“You ever wonder what they made him from?” Mitchell says a minute later.

“No,” Brock lies.

“He’s got - there’s scar tissue all the way round his shoulder. Like he’s gotta heal like a person.”

“Sort of. He’s enhanced,” Brock says. That much is cleared to share within teams. “He’s got some version of the super-soldier serum.”

“But he doesn’t Hulk out like Banner.”

“Banner got a different version. Nobody knows how that one works.” Or how the fuck conservation of mass works, anymore. If Banner was really smart he’d hole up somewhere and figure out where Einstein went wrong. Then maybe he’d be valuable enough not to shut up in a cage. Brock’s thought about moonlighting for the bounty on that one, but he values his limbs staying attached to his body.

“...you think he’s like Robocop?”

Brock draws in a deep breath. Every green kid asks eventually. It’s the fucking STRIKE equivalent of ‘where do babies come from’.

“I don’t know. Don’t have clearance for that one,” he says. “Some people says he’s a cadaver. Some people say he was a volunteer.”

“So more Six Million Dollar Man.”

“I guess,” Brock says. “Never watched it.”

“Come on! Steve Austin? It’s where we get the whole word ‘cyborg’.”

“Unlike some people I didn’t get beat up in high school.” He hopes that’s still an insult. Fucking Tony Stark’s made being a nerd popular.

“Fuck you, I was an offensive tackle.”

“Did you suck at it?” Brock asks, sincerely curious. Mitchell’s cut, everyone on his team is, but he’s not exactly proportioned like a Mack Truck. He can’t imagine that kid playing football.

“We took second in state my junior year.”

Brock snorts. “No one gives a shit about the second place team.”

“Did you make it to state?” Mitchell sneers.

“My school gym was condemned,” Brock says. “So no.”

The Soldier’s towel hits the floor, joining the rest of his stinking clothes. It’s twisted into a perfect space-saving roll, as if he expects to use it again. The empty DryBath follows after, folded into a neat little square.

“Get some clothes on,” Brock tells him, ignoring whatever Mitchell is saying about sour grapes. Brock doesn’t need a green techie from West Point to tell him about how ‘hard’ state bowls are. Brock throws a clean t-shirt and some boxers in the Soldier’s general direction.

The Soldier dresses in a series of soft rustles, then goes silent. Brock risks a glance up to find him standing at perfect attention, holding himself tight and upright despite the sway of the van.

“At ease,” Brock tells him. “Or good boy.” Whatever. Fucking dog commands. “I’ll get your treat.”

The Soldier drops once more into an eager crouch, watching Brock’s every move as he gets into the rations.

“Here.” Brock chucks a package of peanut butter-lard bar into the Soldier’s cage. He figures the guy could use something more substantial after working out. The Soldier scrambles to stuff himself in after it, either excited about the food or the chance to shut himself up again. He tries to drag his clothes with him, unfortunately - both his tac suit and the pile of stinking workout clothes.

“Hey!” Brock says. The Soldier freezes with his face mashed against the far side. “No. Give that shit back.”

“What’s he doing?” Mitchell asks.

“Stealing the goddamn laundry,” Brock says. He’s got one hand on a baton, just in case. The Soldier’s not been disobedient, not beyond the initial potato chip disaster. Brock’s starting to think the Soldier just forgot about trash. His sad little Subway napkin is tucked next to his mask, like he thinks it’s all part of his gear.

Brock is tired as hell, but especially of being afraid.

The Soldier reluctantly backs out of his crate, still clinging to an armful of Kevlar and sweatpants.

“You don’t keep dirty clothes,” Brock tells him. “Or wrappers. Give.”

The Soldier goes to his hands and knees, curled with his pile of crap underneath him. He unfurls each piece of clothing one at a time, lays it out wrinkled in the floor in front of Brock. If it were anyone else on the planet, he would swear the Soldier is sulking.

“Tac gear too,” Brock says. “You don’t need that in there. And the napkin.”

The Soldier’s eyes dart back and forth, frantic. Lock onto him with an intensity like deep glacial ice. Brock clicks on the charge to the shock stick, holds that gaze with everything he’se got.

“You okay back there?” Mitchell asks.

“Yeah. Just cleaning house,” Brock says. Every muscle in his body is tingling with tension. “C’mon, bitch. Give.”

The Soldier makes a tiny, wrecked noise, but reluctantly he reaches in to retrieve the remaining items. It looks like it costs him a tooth to lay out his last possessions: the wrinkled Subway napkin. His face mask. His field goggles.

Brock taps a finger toward the field ration. “You can keep your PlumpyNut. Your treat. But you throw the wrapper away when you’re done. Got it? People don’t hang on to garbage. You get an attitude about it again, there’s gonna be consequences.”

An aeon ticks out between them, and then slowly, deliberately, the Soldier lowers his body to the floor. Rolls onto his back, with his head twisted to the left.

“Yessir,” the Soldier whispers, and damned if he doesn’t bare his fucking throat. Brock can feel his heart shaking through his chest.

“I got it,” Mitchell says, somewhere far off. “He’s not Robocop. He’s Terminator.”

“Yeah well, I sure as hell didn’t sign up to be John Connor,” Brock calls back. There’s air in the van again, so much his head is spinning with it. “When we get back, I’m writing this the fuck up. They wanna send him with a cover, I shouldn’t have to teach him how to find his ass with his hand.”

The Soldier eats his PlumpyNut outside of his cage with his belly still to the ceiling. Brock decides he can let it slide this once.

Oh my god, I am DEVASTATED by the way the Soldier reacts to having to give up his Subway napkin. Jesus Christ. That entire scene at the end just killed me. This fill continues to be fantastic.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)

(Anonymous) - 2015-01-20 05:50 (UTC) - Expand

The way the Soldier so badly wants to hang on to his possessions, to have something that's his own, is absolutely destroying me. The subway napkin.... ;_;

Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)

(Anonymous) - 2015-01-20 14:03 (UTC) - Expand

First of all, I love that Rumlow referenced Dorian Gray and now all I want is for him to teach the Soldier "hasta la vista, baby."

Your STRIKE banter is glorious. I love that "where the Soldier comes from" is their equivalent to the birds and the bees talk.

Also, this is devastating. Just. Everything hurts. The napkin. I am broken. You are amazing.

Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)

(Anonymous) - 2015-01-20 17:23 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Pedigree (10/?)

(Anonymous) - 2015-01-21 01:28 (UTC) - Expand

"“Yessir,” the Soldier whispers, and damned if he doesn’t bare his fucking throat. Brock can feel his heart shaking through his chest."

OMG BLESS YOU

This line makes me feel physically uncomfortable in my clothes. I ADORE the fact that the Soldier has apparently decided Rumlow is fit to be his alpha/master/whatever, this is SO dirtybadwrong in the best of ways.

oh my GOD it's too incredible for words!