Chapter Text
“Come with me,” the handler says, walking on the right side, hand on the flesh arm.
“What’s that cup? Get rid of it.”
The Asset’s fingers tighten on the cup. Critical materiel.
“Okay, okay. Velveteen.”
They walk 0.4 km, pace 1.3 km/h.
“Velveteen,” the handler says every few steps, “velveteen.”
Every repetition is quiet. It is muscles gone slack and silence in the mind. Command recognized. Comply.
The handler steers him into an office building. Décor: outmoded. Lights dim, zero security. Probable inadequate emergency exits. Lobby: insecure. Elevators: insecure. Second basement level, left turn, four doors on the left.
Two locks. Really, actually, only two locks. Probability that the arm would disable them: 900%. Estimated duration of task: 0.5 seconds.
“Velveteen,” the man says.
Location recognized as type RAS: report and supply. Communications equipment currently offline. Handler’s perspiration increased 8%. No Chair.
No Chair.
“Give me that cup.”
The fingers tighten.
“Velveteen. Give it to me.”
Comply.
“Arms in front.”
Assessment: amateur. Comply.
Two zip ties are placed around the wrists. Assessment: idiot.
The handler dials a phone. Recognized inexpensive model, likely burner. He takes a photo of the face.
“Hello? Hello, I have him. I have the ghost. You know.”
LISTEN
Comply.
The handler whispers.
“The soldier.”
The handler’s respiration increases.
“No, I won’t tell you where I am. I want two hundred grand, cash. You promise that, I’ll bring him to you.
“Yes, that’s right. You don’t need my name. Sending proof now.
“I told you. Two hundred grand. I used the passcode, he’s like a marionette. Where do you want me to meet you? No, later than that, I have to drive in from Pennsylvania. Okay, okay.”
The handler disconnects.
“That’ll throw them off my scent. Now we wait. Right, creepy eyes? Guess you’ll stand there staring all day, dumbass, as long as I keep saying velveteen.”
OVERRIDE
The mission imperative has a tone now. That tone is smug.
Barnes smiles – a slow spreading of his mouth until all his teeth are exposed, and the man’s mouth drops open. He’s twitchy and sweaty and wearing a shirt so cheap-looking Barnes would’ve passed it up in a dumpster.
“Velveteen,” the guy gasps.
OVERRIDE
Barnes breaks the zip ties with one slow wrist movement. The guy lurches for a weapon while Barnes retrieves his coffee and takes a sip.
“Aw, it’s cold,” he says.
The sweaty guy has a pistol basically pointed at him – or at least, shaking sort of in his general direction. Could be the safety is off. Probably not. The guy’s barely able to stand upright: he’s clearly an office drone with just enough knowledge to get in extremely big trouble.
“Hey pal,” he says to the guy in a soft voice. The voice slides naturally out of his throat, a purr that means violence. That means enjoying the pain of knuckles meeting jaw.
“Hey. Do I worry you?”
“Velveteen!”
OVERRIDE
“Doesn’t seem to be working anymore, friend.”
He steps forward, still smiling. The sweaty guy blinks reflexively, and the gun weaves a little dance hither and yon.
“I should worry you.”
He steps closer. Assessment: win.
“I can think of eight different ways to kill you without even spilling my coffee.”
Sweaty guy moans a little. When Barnes steps forward again, the guy actually closes his eyes.
Aw. Poor thing.
Barnes reaches out with the metal arm, slowly, still grinning, and twists the gun until sweaty guy can’t hold it anymore. One swing and the guy is drooling on the cheap linoleum floor.
Coffee tastes good even cold. It’s kittens and rainbows in his mouth. Might be time to branch out at Starbucks.
The phone really is a burner, no sign that it’s SHIELD or HYDRA issue. He crushes it anyhow but is glad to have at least a few minutes in the RAS.
First he duct-tapes the sweaty guy to a chair. Including his mouth. Then he has a nice long stretch. It’s embarrassing that he got made by such a drone, but that velveteen command was like taking a really good nap. He feels ready to get shit done.
LOCATE TARGET
Like that.
The RAS makes Barnes breathe quickly and his feet feel shifty. There’s a whole drawer full of cash (had sweaty guy even looked? assessment: terminally moronic). He stuffs some in his boots, in all his pockets, and in the ratty bag that holds Rogers’s notebooks and apples and a couple extra hats. Another drawer holds beautiful knives, and another gorgeous hand grenades.
Probably not much call for grenades on a protection detail, but everyone needs one more knife. He takes three.
The first cabinet he opens holds food. He stuffs a protein bar in his mouth while he rummages through the tech cabinet. The laptop will have spyware on it, but he can disable that. In the bag it goes with its charger. There’s surveillance equipment – bugs and directional mikes, and even a small set of tools that can be used for basic maintenance on the metal arm. And picking locks. And, you know, punching up through the nose to puncture the brain. In a tight spot, when you don’t mind a mess.
Sweaty guy wakes up just as Barnes opens the gun cabinet and groans for joy. Likelihood that sweaty guy’s moan is joyous: 2%.
There’s even a huge duffel, so he can take the sniper rifle. He almost likes sweaty guy for bringing him here.
LOCATE CAPTAIN ROGERS
“Working on it,” he says.
Resupply is an advantage. He fills the duffel with guns, ammo, surveillance gear, and the rest of the cash.
“Hey pal, you ever have a frappucino?” he asks while he packs. After 1.9 seconds, sweaty guy nods.
“Any good?”
Nod.
“Think I’m gonna try one.”
He wedges protein bars into the corners of the duffel and zips it closed. Only the metal arm can lift the damn thing, making him more unbalanced than ever. It’s gonna kill his back. But it’s time. No more sleepwalking, no more recognizable patterns. Time to go to work. Time to find Rogers
LOCATE
and keep him safe.
PROTECT, the mission imperative purrs.
Before he leaves, Barnes sends two texts to Dale on the banjo phone: one a picture of sweaty guy, tagged ‘HYDRA asshat,’ and the other the building’s address.
He leaves the phone on the table and the door unlocked.