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FoxWriter
Cluster
- Joined
- Jan 20, 2011
- Location
- in the realm of lust and seduction
It was late, or maybe early depending on who you asked. It was about three in the morning, a time when sane people where in bed unless they needed to be at work. A Time where even the busy streets of New York, Manhattan where nearly silent. The Tower of Stark Industries, or Avengers Tower was dark and silent and still and that was good. It was dead like he was. He liked the darkness. It didn't hurt his eyes so much. Who was he? He didn't rightly know. He had been called many things, in the past and more recently. So far he was content with naming himself as he had been named in the past The Asset. Though he had been called other things, the Weapon, the Boy, the Drone, the Winter Soldier. Recently he had also been called Bucky by one, a Target. His Mission had called him Bucky and this had made him hesitate, falter though he did not know why. He was Steve, he knew. The name of his Mission, though he knew nothing else of the man who had made him fail his Mission, had mad the pain come, had made his training and programming useless. Logically he should have hunted that One down and finished the Mission. Instead he was in the middle of Stark Tower, waiting silently in the dark.
He had done as all Assets where trained to do, Black Widow, Winter Soldier, or others. People who where dangerous, controlled, trapped but could break loose and turn on their Handlers like the wild beasts they where. He had placed a gun, his favorite on the table out of reach for his handler to take and use against him if he ever snapped free and tried to kill the one who had handled him. His SIG-Sauer P220ST lay on the table, glinting in the light as if mocking him. Laughing in the darkness as it urged him to pick it up and use it on someone, anyone. He could not use it without permission from a handler though, and that was why he was there. To see Tony Stark, a possible new handler. He had tried others, but they all told him to go see Steve. He could not go see Steve, he didn't know who Steve was, he could not go to Steve until he knew. So he went to his last option, and was now sitting in his kitchen with his gun mocking him just out of reach, waiting. He looked up, wincing when all of a sudden, too bright, lights came on. Tony was there.
The Asset wondered if Tony was afraid as most of his handlers tended to be. He supposed his appearance didn't help much. He hadn't bathed in...years? Months? Weeks?he was covered in grime and dirt from sleeping in parks and on the streets, trying to find a handler. His hair was ratted and matted and hung around his face, shadowing his already gaunt, too thin appearance. Eating out of garbage cans did not a healthy diet make. He was thin, sickly pale and gaunt. Shadowed and bruised and filthy. The Asset compared himself to a stray dog, or one of those poor mongrels in the hoarders house. Matted and filthy and half vicious from fear and pain, not used to being handled but willing to put up with it if it meant food, a bath and someone to tell him what to do. “The others all said no.” Asset managed to say, voice hoarse, barely a croak. Not used to talking anymore. He'd had no one to speak to. Before, he'd had to maintain good vocal functionality to speak to his handlers, giving reports mostly or voicing discomfort. There where times in the field as well when he spoke, giving orders, asking for orders or just telling someone to get the hell out of his way.
He had done as all Assets where trained to do, Black Widow, Winter Soldier, or others. People who where dangerous, controlled, trapped but could break loose and turn on their Handlers like the wild beasts they where. He had placed a gun, his favorite on the table out of reach for his handler to take and use against him if he ever snapped free and tried to kill the one who had handled him. His SIG-Sauer P220ST lay on the table, glinting in the light as if mocking him. Laughing in the darkness as it urged him to pick it up and use it on someone, anyone. He could not use it without permission from a handler though, and that was why he was there. To see Tony Stark, a possible new handler. He had tried others, but they all told him to go see Steve. He could not go see Steve, he didn't know who Steve was, he could not go to Steve until he knew. So he went to his last option, and was now sitting in his kitchen with his gun mocking him just out of reach, waiting. He looked up, wincing when all of a sudden, too bright, lights came on. Tony was there.
The Asset wondered if Tony was afraid as most of his handlers tended to be. He supposed his appearance didn't help much. He hadn't bathed in...years? Months? Weeks?he was covered in grime and dirt from sleeping in parks and on the streets, trying to find a handler. His hair was ratted and matted and hung around his face, shadowing his already gaunt, too thin appearance. Eating out of garbage cans did not a healthy diet make. He was thin, sickly pale and gaunt. Shadowed and bruised and filthy. The Asset compared himself to a stray dog, or one of those poor mongrels in the hoarders house. Matted and filthy and half vicious from fear and pain, not used to being handled but willing to put up with it if it meant food, a bath and someone to tell him what to do. “The others all said no.” Asset managed to say, voice hoarse, barely a croak. Not used to talking anymore. He'd had no one to speak to. Before, he'd had to maintain good vocal functionality to speak to his handlers, giving reports mostly or voicing discomfort. There where times in the field as well when he spoke, giving orders, asking for orders or just telling someone to get the hell out of his way.
