Chapter Text
The first time the Asset failed, it wasn’t even his fault.
It sort of was, in the way that everything was: He did not complete the mission and he would be punished for it. But it wasn’t because of anything he did. It was because of a gun, if it could even be called that.
He hadn’t thought much of it when his handler shoved the thing into his hands and gave him his mission. He simply went to the assigned location, found a spot up high, and prepared for the short window of time that the target would be in sight. He aimed, he pulled the trigger, and nothing happened.
The damn gun had jammed.
The target was gone and the Asset would’ve groaned if he were capable of frustration. As it was, he could foresee how his handler was going to take it. Checking over the rifle, he saw HAMMER TECH emblazoned on the side. Probably because a hammer was the only use left for the gun, provided the metal could survive even that.
He threw the gun to the side, not wanting to be associated with it anymore. As if he didn’t dislike the company enough, that’s when the gun decided to go off and give away his position.
The Asset ran before the shot finished echoing in the air, but he took the long way back in the barest hope of prolonging his time until he was punished. Especially when it was the fault of a crappy gun.
In his escape he wound up in a warehouse to avoid some men running his way. The building was mostly empty, save some guards. He heard their voices, gruff and murmuring, but they were too low for him to make out, even with advanced hearing. He stayed low, peeking out from around a crate to take stock of his environment.
The guards were stopped in front of his exit route, so the Asset knew he would have to fight them. He didn’t have any concerns about killing them, he would do whatever was necessary and damn the consequences, but his primary goal was to avoid as much mess as possible. He’d have to make sure he didn’t spill any blood, then.
His mind clouded over, as it often did when he fought. There was no need for any thoughts or emotions beyond kill.
When awareness returned, he was surrounded by bodies, crooked where their necks had snapped. Mission complete.
Before leaving, he took notice of their weapons that had fallen to the ground. The one Hydra had given him was inefficient, perhaps he should take a new one.
He lifted each one, testing the weight and feel. None of them were right, though. He used to make do with whatever he was given, but after that failed gun, he had to make sure. He needed something great.
One guard had a different model than the others. He was probably the head of security, a badge shining on his chest to declare the authority he once held. Strapped across his back, where he hadn’t had a chance to grab it, was a rifle.
The Asset picked it up and looked it over. Most military grade rifles were being switched to M4 carbines, as they were lighter, but this was an M16. It had some weight to it, nothing to the Asset, but enough for him to notice. It was definitely in need of cleaning, the barrel sticky with grime, but the Asset could take care of that. He… wanted to do that, which was odd considering the Asset couldn’t want anything.
But he wanted this. The rifle that was matte black, but shiny where the paint had chipped with use. When he held it up and aimed, it rested in his metal hand not like he was holding it, but rather like it was an extension of the limb. He took a quick shot across the room, just to test it. There was no one left to hear the noise, anyway.
The bullet met its target with precision. The Asset was trained and could make any shot, but rather than fighting the gun for control, it worked with him. Like it wanted to help him in any way it could. It was a ridiculous thought, but if a machine like himself could have thoughts, could want something, why not an M16 carbine rifle?
He ran his hands over the metal caringly. Later he would wonder why his programming wasn’t rushing him to return to base and report, but in that moment he just wanted to keep touching the gun, get to know every inch of it. Was he going crazy or did the gunpowder smell especially good? Did he have enough of a mind to go crazy?
He took note of some parts of the gun to clean and fix up — the guard clearly hadn’t taken care of it, and the Asset couldn’t help wishing his death wasn’t as quick— but the chips and dents, he liked. It was used, a little worse for wear. Like the Asset. Not that any part of the Asset could really compare to the beauty of the rifle.
His inspection led him to find a mark just above the handle. Carved into the metal and brushed over with paint to stand out, was “T.S.”. It wasn’t like the factory “STARK INDUSTRIES” stamped onto the side. It was blocky, kind of clumsy, like it was done by hand. Like a signature.
The rifle was slung onto his back and stayed with him as he made the trek back to base, bouncing with each step in a way more comforting than annoying.
It was there as he recorded his failed mission. As he was hit with the faulty HAMMER gun to show how effective it could be. As they led him back to his cryo.
Before they could freeze him, he took advantage of a turned guard to stuck the rifle into the crack behind the chamber, where it would hopefully be safe..
Still smelling metal and smoke, his lips quirked up into something that wasn’t a stern line as the cold washed over him.