Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Tony lay still in the biting chill of the Siberian winter, watching as his breath rose as fog into the night. Well, he said lay - what he really meant was trapped under 200 pounds of pure, unmovable metal. But, eh - semantics.

Day had slowly turned into night as he lay there, hope for rescue dwindling as fast as the feeling in his limbs. Really and truly, with the amount of time he had been there and his brain capacity (Hello - Genius. He didn't proclaim it just for fun), he should have had more than enough time to think things through; rationalise. But he still hadn't managed to muster up the ability to think beyond 'Steve lied?' (Well, that and 'Ow, fuck, that hurts, everything hurts' and his personal favourite 'fuck, it's cold'). It blared like sirens in his mind, bold red letters flashing before his eyes spelling out 'Steve's a liar', and yet, still, he couldn't quite believe it.

He couldn't believe that a man he had believed to be his friend had lied straight to his face for two years. He couldn't believe that the man he had invited into his home had gone behind his back and used his money and resources to search for his mother's murderer. He couldn't believe that Captain Fucking America, the epitome of all things great and spangly and whatever other propaganda bullshit people had bought into, had beaten a teammate and friend to near death and left him. He didn't think he ever quite would.

The sound of snow crunching underfoot pulled him out of his musings and hope filled him once again. Had they come back? Had someone - anyone - discovered where he was and come to save him from the Siberian cold?

Then cold hard reality came flooding back. Of course they hadn't - he had left FRIDAY offline before going to Siberia and Captain Spangles and his Hydra boyfriend had fucked off hours ago. No one could have found him. What was he thinking?

Wait - what was he thinking!

Footsteps drew closer, before pulling to a stop beside his head and a face swam into vision. Ice blond hair, pale skin, and vibrant blue eyes stared down at him once again, a snarl pulling at sharp features.

"Look at what the cat dragged in," The man joked in a lilting German accent, voice uncharacteristically jovial in the situation they found themselves in. Mr. German-stereotype-supreme leaned down, surveying his body like a piece of meat laid out on display. Like prey. And Tony Stark was not prey.

"All wrapped up like a present too! Oh, Hydra's going find good use for this little gift."

'Ah, Fuck-' Was the last thing Tony had time to think before a steel-capped boat came stomping him down into darkness.

Chapter Text

Tony awoke to a feeling of comfort. The kind of comfort that dragged you back down, made your eyes feel like two tonnes of lead and whispered soothingly in your ear, coaxing you back to sleep. Pulling open his heavy eyelids, he flinched, momentarily blinded by the stark white of wherever he was. White ceiling, white walls, white floors – everything shone with a clinical sheen that had Tony’s stomach twisting uncomfortably. Bombs and shrapnel and ringing, harsh words and pained screams echoed in his ears, drawing him from the sweet release of sleep into his worst nightmare. Tony startled, mind jolting awake at the familiarity of the situation he found himself in.

He found one cage had been traded for another – a deadweight suit for metal shackles and leather straps. The metal table he lay on pressed uncomfortably against his back. It was all the same really; all designed to keep him trapped.

He lay, waiting, the heavy silence that permeated the air pressing in from all sides. Time ticked slowly by and his breath steadily quickened with every second they left him there, unattended.

He had gone into the situation blind (literally dragged into it) and as such had no idea what to expect. It was an unusual feeling and one that left a bitter taste in the back of his mouth. The tension, the wait, the unknown – it was excruciating and he half registered that they were already messing with him. Mind fuckery seemed to be their play this time around.

A creak echoed through the bare room as a door presumably slid open and closed once again. Tony craned his head to look but found his neck tethered in place, thick leather cutting into his throat. Well, he wasn’t averse to leather, but he usually preferred it in the kinky, consensual kind of way - not the Hydra kidnapping kind of way. Roleplaying wasn’t really his thing (concussions weren’t either, but he was pretty sure he had one of those too).

A head popped into view, a grim expression upon familiar features.

“Ah! Mr. German-Stereotype! Fancy seeing you here. You know I’d usually opt for dinner before ending up in this sort of situation, but I guess you’re a bit more forward in your approach.” Blondie offered a tight-lipped smile in response, reaching forward to tighten the strap across his chest.

“Indeed, Mr. Stark, quite the mouth you have on you. I wonder how long that will last.”

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all.

“So, what’s the plan? It’s about time for your little villain monologue - you know the one. Hydra’s great plan, what you have in store for me, yadda, yadda, yadda.” Blondie let out a small chuckle, leaning back as though to admire his work. He turned away, busying with something off to the side.

“It is as you said,” the doctor replied, lifting a blue syringe from the table beside him, “We’ll continue on with our little date. Oh, I do hope you’re into masochism, I have quite the treat in store.” He harshly stabbed the syringe into Tony’s bicep, roughly pushing it down. He chucked the syringe to the side, running soft fingers down the skin of Tony’s arm. “I’ll miss that mouth of yours, it’ll be a shame to see it go. Needs must, I suppose.”

Before Tony could think up a witty response, a gag was shoved unceremoniously into his mouth. Blondie gave an approving nod, before turning away.

Dread settled in Tony’s stomach as the doctor began to walk away, skin tingling where his hand had met his. Before reaching the door, the man paused and turned back, something strange in his eyes.

“Dr. Wolvenstein. I have a feeling you’ll remember it.”

The door closed with an echoing click and silence reigned once more.

Tony shifted, staring uncomprehendingly at the blue liquid that began to travel upwards through his body, drawing a map on his skin. It reminded him too closely of the way that palladium poisoning had looked and felt and Tony felt his heart begin to hammer wildly as the helplessness of the situation finally settled in. His body temperature plummeted and he was unsure whether it was a result of the injection or his own terror. Tony began to jerk against his restraints, emotion overcoming his sense of logic as his mind screamed at him to get away, get away!

The first thing that registered was the heat. Warmth swam through his veins and sweat began to cluster at his forehead. It quickly began to rise and, within a matter of minutes, his body temperature had risen from warm to unbearable. Molten lava pumped around his body and seared everything in its path, burning red trails across everything it touched. Tony squirmed, breath coming in harsh pants as his lungs seemed to burn with every breath. It was like having the arc reactor back again – the chronic pain, the shortness of breath, the light headedness. His hands began to tingle with panic. Not again.

Then came the pain.

The first wave rolled over him like a tsunami and every muscle in Tony’s body tensed in the collective effort to hold back the scream at the tip of his tongue. Suddenly the gag’s purpose was startlingly clear. He wished it wasn’t.

He barely had time to gasp out a breath of air before the second wave of pain rolled over him so abruptly that Tony was sure he would have bitten his tongue off had the gag not been in place.

As it was every vein and artery in his body rose to the surface of his skin as though they were trying to leap from his body, skin be damned, and his muscles bulged startlingly against his restraints. He could barely even hear the tearing of his skin, ragged metal digging into soft flesh, over the sounds of his own uncontrollable whimpers. Tremors racked through his body. Every nerve in his body was alight with pain.

The pain let up for the barest of moments and Tony almost cried in relief. His brain felt like mush, thoughts drowning in pure agony that clogged every sense, unable to muster up enough energy to form anything coherent through the searing heat that melted his mind.

Barely even a second passed before the pain – the sensations, everything – started back with a vengeance. Everything had come back at once, but with more. This time it wouldn’t pass.

Ice cold and immeasurable heat alternated in washing over his aching body; white cold knives spearing every inch of his skin as hot lava poured through his veins. He felt like he was melting from the inside out. And it wouldn’t stop.

Minutes (Hours? Years?) passed before his body finally gave out, falling limp. Even in sleep, he continued to scream past his restraints, the shrill sound echoing throughout every corner of the barren Hydra base, bouncing off of every wall and floor, ringing into every corner – every nook and cranny of the base.

There was no one to hear his screams.

Chapter Text

The next day Dr. Wolvenstein returned to the cell, a grin lighting up his features. He bustled around, poking experimentally at his skin and smiling as though satisfied with the results. Tony watched through half-lidded eyes, too exhausted to care.

The exhaustion ran bone deep; not the kind that had you wishing for sleep, but the kind that had you craving for more. To fall into darkness and never wake up, to never move your aching muscles again. Everything felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and he knew he couldn’t have moved even if he tried. He didn’t want to try. He was done trying.

Everything he did, every step he took would lead back to the same point. He would stand up only to be beaten down; again, and again and again. Every movement he made, someone would be there to shove him back. Every obstacle he overcame, a new one appeared. It was exhausting doing the same thing every day. Having to pull himself up and out every day to face the world when the world so clearly didn’t want him. He had hit rock bottom and he wasn’t sure he wanted to get back up. The situation he found himself in was one he wasn’t sure he could escape from – and he wasn’t sure whether it was worth it.

It seemed like every moment in his life had been leading up to this moment, the moment where he finally sat down and said it. Congratulations! You’ve done it. Tony fucking Stark has officially given up.

It was inevitable really. He’d never really had any actual motivation to go on. At this point the only thing keeping him up and running was his own guilt. What else did he have to live for? Father figures that tried to kill him? Friends that he paid to keep around? Teammates that betrayed and fought him at the drop of a hat? Honest to God – what was the fucking point? Even his guilt at this point wasn’t worth it. He had so much of it that he was fucking drowning and God knew he’d never be able to do nearly enough to make up for his actions. So why did he keep trying?

Maybe one good thing had come out of Rogers betrayal – perspective. None of this was worth it. He wasn’t worth it. And he would use his last breath to tell Hydra to fuck off because Tony Stark was done being a puppet – he would rather die.

Blondie leaned over him and grabbed his face, softly stroking his cheek in the way one would a lover and Tony squirmed. This guy was a fucking creep and his last regret would be that he had to spend his dying moments with this psycho.

“Ah, Tony! Our little experiment is complete! Did you enjoy it? I could hear your screams of pleasure all last night you must have loved it!” Tony glared at the man with all the energy he could muster – which wasn’t a lot really, all things considered – and the doctor chuckled, patting his cheek. “That’s the spirit! Still some fight left in you. That’ll be gone soon.”

Dr. Wolvenstein grabbed his trolley and began wheeling him out the door towards another, emptier room. Tony wanted to scream at the indignity of it all. He had never felt so helpless in his life. Exhausted and unable to move, strapped down and tethered, and being wheeled around like a fucking hospital patient. Could he just catch a break for like 5 minutes?

It seemed like the minute the doctor had found him, life transformed into an express train. It sped along at a relentless pace and he was left squirming in place, feeling like he was floating as everything moved along without him, dragging him behind.

Dr. Wolvenstein settled him in place and moved again to stand in his line of sight. He stared down at Tony with hollowed eyes, sunken and shimmering with glee as he watched him. The man almost bristled with anticipation, his entire body thrumming with nervous energy. That couldn’t be good.

“We will now begin with phase three of our date!” The doctor announced dramatically, hands spreading as though to encompass the (very empty) room. Phase three? What happened to phase two? “What I like to call ‘Recalibration’. This is the best part, the Grand Finale, if you will. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it just as much as I will.” The doctor gave him a soft smile, running his hand slowly down the inside of his leg in what he seemed to think was a comforting gesture, before giving it one last pat. Tony continued to shiver even as the doctor left, his soft touch bringing bile to his throat.

Tony waited for whatever this was to begin, stomach turning in knots, just wishing for something to break the silence.

Why had he wished for something to break the silence?

---

Every day was the same. Day in, day out. At least he assumed it was every day. The lack of windows had him floating in a time warp, the routine of his torture the only thing grounding him in reality.

The doctor would come in, perform his torture for the day and leave. He wasn’t sure how long it had been happening, just that it was and that he wasn’t sure if he cared anymore. Every time the man walked through the door, a little more of his will to carry on would leave. He knew he couldn’t hang on for much longer and he wasn’t sure if he cared. He just prayed someone would come to get him before he gave up. There wasn’t long left now.

First, it was the ticking. Unrhythmic it ticked away, never in time but always there. Constant. Tick, tick, tick. It was like every time a thought occurred to him the tick would sound, like it had been timed to his mind. A thought, a tick, and it was gone. A thought, a tick and it was gone. Rinse and repeat.

It pounded at his mind, constant but unrhythmic. The sound never changed, always the same pitch, always the same level – barely there, but there all the same. The sort of noise that you couldn’t ignore if you tried – once someone pointed it out it wouldn’t leave. Tick, tick, tick. He just wanted to think!

Every thought was smothered. Even when he covered his ears the incessant ticking continued, driving him forwards through every moment. Tick, tick, tick. He would have thought he was going insane if he could think.

Coupled with the ticking was a low buzzing sound like static in his mind. It buzzed away, his brain vibrating constantly to the sound of the buzz. So low, he could barely hear it – just frequencies and waves occupying every wavelength of his mind. Buzz, buzz, buzz. Tick, buzz, tick, tick, buzz.

He ran his hands against the smooth surface he lay on. Metal? But everything was white that couldn’t be right. White like snow. Snow was cold and he was cold. Maybe it was snow? Maybe he had never left Siberia and he was still laying there waiting for someone to come get him - like tick or maybe tick, t-tick tick, buzz. Maybe he was waiting for someone to get him? Who was he again? Tick-tick, buzz, tick t-tick, buzz buzz.

Then it was the torture. Every hour on the hour they told him, but some hours seemed longer than others. One time they took 587 cracks on the wall to reappear (he counted them to pass the time - one, buzz tick, two, buzz, tick-tick, tick), another 4365 cracks. Some hours seemed to pass in seconds – one moment they were leaving the cell, the next they were reappearing, a new set of clothes, a new room (when did he move rooms again?). Others dragged on for a millennia as he stared at nothing, the buzzing and ticking joining him in the not-silence. They were like constant companions joining him wherever he went. He wasn’t sure when he moved, but they were always there, always with him. Buzz-buzz, buzz, tick.

Right, the torture. Every hour on the hour. Like clockwork, they would come in, a new set of tools in hands.

“You ready?” Dr. Wolvenstein would ask. He would stare back, unsure why he was asking him as the gag muffled his response. “Good.”

Then they would test him. One cut. “15 seconds.” Two cuts. “17 seconds.” 3 burn marks. “1 minute 20 seconds.” Then they would cut him open and pull the organ of the day out and leave it by his head. “34 minutes.”

Dr. Wolvenstein would smile appreciatively at him. “You did well today, Assistant.” He would stare blankly back, wondering who the Assistant was.

The next hour it would repeat again.

“You ready?” Dr. Wolvenstein would ask. He would stare back, unsure why he was asking him as the gag muffled his response. “Good.”

Then they would test him. 3 cigarette burns. “18 seconds.” 15 knife wounds. “3 minutes.” 4 teeth pulled out. “10 minutes 19 seconds.” Then they would cut him open and pull the organ of the day out and leave it by his head. “26 minutes.”

Dr. Wolvenstein would smile appreciatively at him. “You did well today, Assistant.” He would stare blankly back, wondering who the assistant was.

Tick, tick, buzz, tick, buzz-buzz.

Sometimes they would bring him to the water. He didn’t like the water. They would hold him under for increasing intervals, his lungs burning as they held him. He screamed and thrashed, water filling every hole, every crevice of his being until his lungs would give out and they’d pull him up. “10 minutes.”

Sometimes when they’d push him under his mind would flash with images. Screaming, water – sand – lungs burning as they held him in place, water rushing with every scream – a bespectacled old man dripping with blood from every hole – “15 minutes.”

Sometimes they’d hand him a gun.

“Build it.” They’d say. He’d stare blankly back, wondering when the gag had been removed from his mouth. “Build it,” the man would say again, holding a hot poker to his wrist.

He would shake his head, unsure as to why he was saying no, but knowing it was the right thing to say.

The man would sigh again, a frown marring his dark features. “Insubordination will result in punishment.”

He hated punishment. He shook his head.

Why was he saying no again? Tick, tick-tick-t-tick, buzz buzzzz.

The next hour they would bring him to the chair. He hated the chair.

They would strap him to it and the buzzing would get louder - Buzz it went – until he could feel nothing. Screaming, pain.

Reactor, Siberia, Homecoming, Tower, Water, Agent, Electric, Team, Figure, December.

“You are the Assistant. Are you ready soldier?”

He would stare blankly back, wondering who the assistant was.

The next day it would repeat again.

“You ready?”

“Build it.”

Reactor, Siberia, Homecoming, Tower, Water, Agent, Electric, Team, Figure, December.

“You are the Assistant. Are you ready soldier?”

The next day it would repeat again.

“You ready?”

“Build it.”

Reactor, Siberia, Homecoming, Tower, Water, Agent, Electric, Team, Figure, December.

“You are the Assistant. Are you ready soldier?”

The next day it would repeat again.

“You are the Assistant. Are you ready soldier?”

“Ready to comply.”

Chapter Text

Dr Wolvenstein smiled as he walked into the Assistant’s room, quickly checking him over in order to make sure everything was in order. As usual, the Assistant was nothing more than the compliant tool he had spent months of excruciating work moulding him – no, it – into.

Moving forward, he stepped to stand directly in front of the asset, who sat still, in wait, on the edge of its bed. He reached towards the weapon, placing his hands carefully on its shoulders and offering it a coy smile. He began to smooth his hands down the Assistant’s shoulders, tantalisingly slowly, further and further down, before gripping tightly to the bulging muscle of its biceps, relishing in the blank look upon the Assistant’s face. It sat there unflinching, expression remaining unmovable in the face of his ministrations. Compliant. The perfect tool.

He took the time to admire the Assistant’s strong physique and looming stature, warmth curling in his stomach as he took in the essence of his work. The enhanced version of the super soldier serum had gone above and beyond his expectations. The improvements added to the serum had created a weapon of far greater measure than they had ever thought possible and this new asset outcompeted the previous incarnations in every way. Greater strength, greater metabolism, greater compliance. It was beautiful and far superior to anything they ever could have hoped for.

However, despite the numerous benefits the revitalised serum offered, it was also an unforeseen drawback in its own right and had elongated the activation process far beyond his initial plan. The accelerated healing, while making the previous Winter Soldier’s advancements look like child play, also meant that the Assistant recovered memories at a far greater rate. It had taken gruelling months of hard work in order to overcome this particular oversight.

At first, the Doctor had panicked upon realising of this development and had immediately whisked the asset away to the chair, hoping to pump him with enough volts to remove the memories permanently. This lapse of judgement had almost cost him the entire project when the asset appeared to go into an almost vegetative state. Luckily, the subject managed to return to full health, and in the time of his recovery, the doctor began to plan for the future. And when he had realised that Tony Stark’s memories could be used to his advantage – well, the rest seemed to fall into place.

It was simple. All he had to do was make the subject associate Tony Stark’s memories with pain and, as such, the Assistant's brain would refuse to recover memories, cutting any connection it had to its previous life.

And so, with each of his experiments, he would leave breadcrumbs of Stark’s life around.

First, he began with their healing rate tests. He’d pull out teeth, rip out hair, remove organs, burn and melt skin, pull its eyes from its sockets (most of which the doctor did with an almost childlike sense of curiosity – I wonder how long this will take to heal?) and leave remnants of the subject’s previous life around. He’d hang the Captain’s shield on the wall as he held the subject’s head underwater, reciting he trigger words as he forced it – coughing and gasping – to stare at the reason it was there.

He’d play videos of the Avengers at the compound, drinking and laughing together – a family (Dr. Wolvenstein almost wanted to laugh at the irony of it all) – as he’d extract each nail from the asset’s body, one by one, and watch as the patient flinched in terror as he’d change the video. At some point – he wasn’t sure when – he had begun to hang the nails on the wall, a name under each: Steve Rogers, Black Widow, Clint Barton, the Hulk. They hung on the wall, dripping in blood and pus. A proud display; a collage of their failures.

This process had taken far longer than he had hoped, the subject far too stubborn and unwilling to let go of his memories of the happier times, but, eventually, the torture and depression won out and the Avengers became torture devices in and of themselves. A benefit to the cause.

At one point, in not one of his proudest moments, he had discovered that the Avengers were not the only triggers that would bring Tony Stark to the surface after a small child – Peter Parker, he later found out – appeared in one of the videos he played during their daily sessions. Admittedly, he had lost control and had to force himself to step back for a while after unwittingly beginning to strangle the Assistant with its own intestines.

After that particular incident, he became far more thorough in his research of Tony Stark’s background, finding every possible trigger he could think of and scrubbing them out of his brain one by one. He worked with anything from people to items, eventually moving onto Stark Industries technology in preparation for the Assistant’s future uses.

Eventually, he managed to get his hands on Stark’s retro-framing tech and from that point onwards the Assistant was putty in his hands. The process became far easier with the ability to alter the subject’s memories and soon the asset’s brain was actively working against him, thoughts distorted and painful to recall; previously positive memories overwhelmed with complete and utter terror and the looming promise of punishment. Very quickly, the subject was a clean slate: ready to comply and terrified of his past. Previous associates became targets and threats, and the return of memories triggered the endless need to return to the chair for reconfiguration.

It was perfect. Everything had gone to plan. Tony Stark was gone - forever, if he had any say in it.

The paperwork afterwards was a bore, obviously, but it was worth it. The Assistant was worth it.

The next step in the creation of the Assistant was making sure that the trigger words he had carefully chosen would have their intended effect. The aim was to make the subject associate the trigger words with excruciating pain so that when they were spoken the asset would go into such a state of abject terror that it would do anything to avoid punishment, therefore reaching a state of complete and utter compliance. It required him mapping the very way in which his subject thought in order to rewire every other instinct that appeared in the face of such terror and, in short, rewriting the very way in which it thought.

Choosing the most effective forms of torture to drill the message into the subject’s brain was child’s play after Dr. Wolvenstein’s previous assignment, but the process of moulding the asset’s being into what it was today – a blank canvas ready for orders – was painstakingly slow. However, the desired mindset almost effortlessly came into existence throughout the process of transformation. His daily sessions with the asset were not only useful for altering its memories, but also helped the soldier associate those memories and the words with complete and utter horror.

It was only a matter of sprinkling a few words here and there as they went about their daily routine, alongside its training, and – voila! – the Assistant had fallen into his hands.

He had single-handedly turned Hydra’s greatest enemy into its greatest asset. He had turned Tony Stark into a puppet. That was more than anyone in the history of Hydra could have ever dream of and he had done it. Hydra would shout his name from the heavens, reign rightful glory upon his name for his contribution to their cause, and he would revel in it. It was only deserved. For the good of Hydra.

Aside from the obvious, the Assistant’s compliance gave the Assistant far more uses than he had yet had time to explore - but, all in good time. He would have to ask for permission from his superiors to carry out that particular request, but he was sure they would agree. What was the point in making a tool if you weren’t going to make use of all its functions?

With that final thought in mind, he leant forward, eyes crinkling in pleasure as he pressed a careful kiss to the Assistant’s forehead. He trailed his kisses down until he reached its neck, nuzzling his face into the soft skin and basking in how unmovable and rigid the soldier was beneath him, no resistance under his touch.

“My greatest creation,” he whispered softly into its shoulder. His breath hit the back of its neck steadily, but there was no reaction as it didn’t seem to process his presence. “The Avenger’s will love you almost as much as I do.” And really, he thought, it was true.

He hoped he would see first hand the looks upon the Winter Soldier and the Captain’s faces as they realised what their negligence created; when they saw how they had helped pave Hydra’s way into success. He ought to thank them truly, for leaving him such a wonderful gift wrapped upon his doorstep.

And they would probably appreciate him for taking care of their problem. He had seen the way the Captain had wielded the Winter Soldier as a weapon of his own and the way in which he treated Tony Stark. He had such a wonderful weapon under his control already and yet no way to do the same to the other, always getting in his way and holding back his plans. He was sure the Captain would appreciate his help in the road to destruction by removing his only boundary, one he had already once tried unsuccessfully to neutralise.

And with his greatest threat and rival gone, he would be free to return to the public once again, the Asset by his side, and destroy the accords with its driving force out of the way. It would bring Dr. Wolvenstein great pleasure to see his plan coming along as he had expected for once, one step closer to the end goal. Or, perhaps, one giant leap for mankind.

“Good night, my love. Soon,” He whispered into the skin behind the Assistant's ear, pressing one last kiss to the precious flesh before rising to his feet, hands falling from the asset’s shoulders. He gave the Assistant one last long look over before turning on his heel to leave.

He had a mission to plan after all.

Chapter Text

The Assistant looked up as a man entered the room, a large smile pulling at his ageing features and accentuating the wrinkles clustered around his eyes and lips.

Handler #00 1 Dr. J ohan Wolvenstein. 42. Not a threat.

The weapon watched the man as he moved in front of it, placing his hands on its shoulders and settling onto its thighs as the asset sat still, unmoving. The Assistant shifted minutely to better hold the doctor’s weight and prevent the Handler from falling. Negligence would result in punishment.

The doctor made a small noise of delight, leaning forwards to place a small kiss on the weapon’s nose. “How considerate! Good pet,” he muttered, patting the Assistant’s head with a malicious grin.

The doctor quickly straightened out, seeming to come back into himself, and made focused eye contact with his asset. “Mission Parameters: #001; May 29th 2017.” The soldier instantly snapped to attention, sharp eyes centring in on its Handler. “Target: Everett Ross.”

The Assistant waited for further orders, nonplussed when no more came. “Further orders are needed for an effective mission.” The soldier prompted his Handler.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed, mouth twisting into a snarl. The Assistant had acted out of turn. It would be punished.

Immediately Dr. Wolvenstein’s hands were enclosed around its neck, hard enough to cut off the air flow. Dark eyes stared into the asset’s own, alight with fury. “Who the fuck gave you permission to talk?” He ground out, teeth clenched and tension causing the veins to pop from his neck and face.

The Assistant quickly grabbed his Handler by the calves to prevent him from falling, aware that further negligence of his Handler’s orders would result in increasing punishment. The doctor softened slightly, a small smile taking over his previously angered expression. The pressure on the Assistant’s neck didn’t let up.

“It’s okay, this is only what you deserve – you can relax,” The scientist said not unkindly, voice taking on a more jovial tone. The Assistant stayed still, unsure whether the words were an order or a suggestion and unable to ask for clarification.

“I said relax!” Sharp fingernails pressed into the asset’s neck, blood beginning to draw from the open wound. A wash of unknown chemicals flooded through the Assistant’s body as its lungs began to burn but it disregarded them, forcing its muscles to untense.

The Handler finally released his grip as the Assistant relaxed into his hold and the asset took the time to assess damage, finding that the wounds would only take a matter of seconds to heal over and would not affect its mission.

As predicted, the wounds quickly knitted back together and the doctor patted the fresh skin tentatively, bottom lip sticking out into a pout. “I’m sorry, my love,” he simpered, resting his forehead on the soldier’s collar bone, “but you must understand that insubordination leads to punishment.”

No sooner had the words left the Handler’s lips, than he was harshly biting into the skin of its clavicle. He continued to sink his teeth further in, incisors pressing into the pressure points located either side of the collar bone. The Assistant remained still. Expression of pain was forbidden.

The doctor finally moved back, licking the blood from his teeth and swallowing it. “Clean my lips.” The order came and the asset immediately complied, familiar with what was expected with this particular command. It leaned forward and began to methodically lick the blood from its Handler’s lips. The doctor’s eyes fell shut with a groan, letting out small hums of pleasure with every movement.

The asset continued its ministrations until a sufficient amount of blood was removed from his lips, leaving them stained a dark and familiar red, and drew back. The man’s eyes fluttered open, pupils unfocused and cheeks flushed, absently looking the Assistant up and down. “Soon…” He muttered quietly under his breath, so silent that the asset would not have heard had it not had enhanced senses.

Dr. Wolvenstein suddenly cleared his throat, fiddling with the soldier’s jacket as he straightened up. “Right, right, I got sidetracked…” He wet his lips before continuing on. “Mission Objective: public attempted assassination of Deputy Task Force Commander Everett Kenneth Ross. The Assistant should pose as a French exchange student and discretely inject the Target with 200ml of compound p-f-d3 directly into the bloodstream. Enough time should be given for the Target to see the Assistant before escape. Time frame: 1 week.”

“Ready to comply.” The Assistant responded in monotone. It began to catalogue its orders, pushing important information to the forefront of its mind and compartmentalising or erasing irrelevant information from its memories to maximise efficiency.

“The mission will begin at 00:00, allowing 3 hours for preparation.” It nodded its acknowledgement, rising to its feet as its Handler did the same. The doctor reached forward and pulled the Assistant’s hand to his own, joining their fingers. “Heil Hydra.”

“Heil Hydra.”

---

3 hours later found the doctor and the Assistant hovering in friendly airspace above the city of DC Washington in a SHIELD issued Quinjet. He turned to the asset, finally managing to take in its appearance. It wore a casual hoody, thrown over a vest of weapons, and cargo pants that hugged in all the right places; big blank doe eyes staring at him from beneath floppy brown hair. Like this, the Assistant could pass for any old college student.

The scientist’s heart constricted with warmth and he couldn’t resist taking its smooth face into his hands a pressing a kiss to soft lips. The asset was soft and malleable in his hands and he trailed them downwards towards the Assistant’s waist, stepping closer into its space. He parted from it with a final swipe of his tongue over its lips and began to fiddle with the strings of his tool’s hoody, resisting a smile.

He hesitated for a moment before reaching up and pulling his dog tags from around his neck. He reached forward and carefully placed them over the Assistant’s head, turning the chain so that the newly branded Hydra insignia faced outwards, his name facing towards the Assistant’s heart.

“Primary Order 2: The Assistant must protect Handler id: 001’s dog tags at all cost and is forbidden from removing them from its person without permission from handler #001, unless the tags are rendered unwearable. Order title: Lucky Charm.”

He placed one last kiss to the Assistant’s lips before stepping back, an uncomfortable twinge in his stomach at having the Assistant out of his control. “Are you ready soldier?”

“Ready to comply.” Dr. Wolvenstein nodded, watching as his asset retrieved its parachute and opened the hatch to leave.

“Heil Hydra,” filled the silence in lieu of goodbye, and the Doctor’s heart felt heavy. “Good luck,” He spoke to thin air, eyes flashing dangerously. “It had better be successful, I would hate to have to punish you again.” He knew the words were meaningless, but he found that they reassured him.

The soldier would succeed and his mission would go to plan as all else had. Hydra would be open to the world once again.

“Heil Hydra, indeed.”