Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Felix

United States, Washington D.C.

The elevator doors seal behind him with a metallic groan, leaving him in the humming dark. The servers whisper around him, the only sound in the room. No voices, no footsteps. No people. Which is good. No people means no witnesses.

The cameras are another problem. He can’t avoid those. He’ll have to deal with them later.

Felix taps his badge against the scanner. A beep. ACCESS GRANTED. A lie, technically. The script he slipped into the system two hours ago will keep the doors open for him until 1:30 a.m. After that, security gets an alert. He plans to be long gone by then.

He’s not sure how Fury or the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. will react when they realize he’s stolen classified files from the archive. But what choice does he have? Something’s off inside the agency. Something rotten. And the only way to prove it is to get real evidence.

If the servers are clean, fine. He walks out unseen, no harm done. But if he’s right, if the corruption runs as deep as he thinks, then he’ll have the proof he needs. Proof not just for himself, but for the entire world.

Fury believes him. Or at least, Felix thinks so. Whether that is because of the conviction in his report or because Fury shares his suspicion that S.H.I.E.L.D. is rotting from the inside, he can’t tell. It shouldn’t matter. All that matters is getting the files, meeting Fury, and finally doing something.

He’s sure Fury will look the other way if it means stopping the agency from collapsing.

Felix crosses the room and drops into the terminal chair, flexing his fingers before waking the monitor. Dim-blue light flickers across his face as he pulls a USB drive from his pocket and slots it into the port. The machine hums to life. Once the system loads, he logs in and opens the archived access logs.

Lines of numbers spill down the screen, meaningless to anyone who doesn’t know what they’re looking for. He scrolls, eyes scanning familiar names, timestamps, and codes. Everything looks normal. Routine.

Until—

There.

Names he knows. Agents who are dead. Accounts that should’ve been locked years ago. Retired personnel accessing restricted files. How? Why? Who’s using their credentials? And what’s so secret it has to be hidden behind the identities of the dead?

The list keeps going. All of them long dead. All of them still on payroll. He opens one of the accounts, expecting a system error, but no. No error. Active.

He opens another. And another. Each “dead” agent links back to the same dormant contractor, the same budget code, each authorized under the same administrative ID. Pierce’s ID.

Hold on. Pierce? Alexander Pierce?

No way.

He digs deeper, following the trail to whatever he’s just uncovered. The screen blinks; a hidden directory unfolds, lines of code, obscure links, encrypted files. He clicks one. A chat window opens. Pierce and… someone else.

Felix scrolls through the thread,scanning months of correspondence until one message stops him cold:

Asset remains S.H.I.E.L.D. property. Project Insight requires a living reversionary operative for targeted insertion. Reactivation protocol was authorized. No external disclosure.

He narrows his eyes. Asset? Who or what is that? And what does it have to do with Project Insight? Why is it needed? Did he miss a briefing? A report? None of it makes sense.

He scrolls deeper through the chat, hoping for clarity. But what he finds isn’t an answer. It’s confirmation. No, something worse. At the bottom of the thread, both messages end the same way:

Hail HYDRA.

Felix stares at the words. Blinks. Reads them again. And again. But rereading doesn’t make them disappear. It only makes the truth sink deeper.

His pulse spikes, thudding loud in his ears. What the hell is going on here? HYDRA is dead. It has to be. Their organization collapsed decades ago, Rogers made sure of that. Germany lost. HYDRA burned. So why are people still hailing it? And not just people. People inside S.H.I.E.L.D.

Neo-Nazis? Some cult worshiping HYDRA’s old ideology? No. That doesn’t fit. This feels bigger. Because why hide behind dead accounts and buried servers just to preach ideology? And Pierce, secretary of the World Security Council, of all people?

The agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. would never. He knows them. He knows what they fight for. Unless… they’re not S.H.I.E.L.D. agents at all. Unless HYDRA never really died, just burrowed deep enough to survive. Grew back from the inside. And now, it’s everywhere.

Dear God. He knew something was wrong inside this agency, but this? This is a catastrophe. If he’s right, it could mean the end of everything. And he might be the only one who can stop it before it’s too late.

Felix wants to dig deeper, to uncover every thread, but there’s no time. He can’t stay much longer. He move fast, starting the transfer. The progress bar crawls across the screen.

It’ll have to be enough. Enough to get Fury’s attention. Enough to make him act.

After what feels like forever, the progress bar finally hits 100% and vanishes. Felix yanks the USB drive free and shoves it back into his pocket, closing out everything on the screen. He waits just long enough for the monitor to fade to black before pushing away from the desk.

He moves fast, too fast, but he can’t help it. His pulse still hammers in his ears, panic pressing tight in his chest as he heads for the elevator. By the time he pulls out his phone, his hands are shaking.

He can’t wait until morning. Doesn’t care how late it is. He needs to call Fury. Now.

This is a goddamn emergency.

The Asset

It waits in the tree, balanced on a branch that should have cracked long ago if it weren’t so dense. Binoculars to its eyes, it watches the parking lot where its next target parked: Felix Blake. Human. Not enhanced. Probably no combat training. An easy target. That’s all it knows. Pierce never gives more.

The orders are simple: retrieve the data. Eliminate the leak. No witnesses.

It would be lying to say it isn’t curious. But curiosity is for people, not for assets. It does not ask questions. It complies. Compliance is what it does best.

It doesn’t know why it does any of this, why it’s sent to kill, to destroy, but it believes it’s for the greater good. Pierce told it that, over and over. It’s shaping the new century, he said. Saving the world. Erasing evil so that billions can live in peace.

The Asset likes hearing that. It’s not sure if it’s allowed to like it, but it can’t help it, not with the way Pierce says the words. So gentle. So kind. So sweet.

He isn’t like the others. The agents, the technicians, the medics treat it like filth. They hit it, shove it, drug it until it can’t fight back. Until it can’t think. If it had a choice, if it had any power at all, it would slaughter them. One by one. Limb by limb.

It isn’t supposed to feel this hatred, this wrath, toward the operatives. Toward its own people. Pierce would be disappointed if it acted on anger, and it doesn’t want to disappoint him. It wants to be good. Every time it’s good, something waits for it afterward. It can’t remember what that something is, only that it feels worth the obedience.

Its focus sharpens when it sees the target hurry out of the building, phone clutched to his ear. Blake moves toward his car, gets in, and starts the engine. Good.

The mission proceeds.

Shoving the binoculars aside, it rises to its feet on the branch. Below, Blake’s car rolls out of the parking lot, turning onto the same route as before.

The Asset has been watching Blake for two days, memorizing every part of his routine. It knows exactly where he’s headed now. Home. Except he’ll never make it there. The Asset will make sure of that.

It waits. Waits for the car to enter the street below. Waits for it to pass the tree. Waits for the phone to drop.

Now.

As the vehicle passes beneath, it pivots, tracking the movement before launching itself from the branch. It lands hard on the roof with a metallic thud. A startled, short scream erupts from inside; the tires screech, swerving left and right before the car jerks to a stop in the middle of the road.

It moves quickly, crawling down to the windshield. Through the fractured glass, it sees Blake’s face; wide-eyed, terrified, hands trembling on the wheel. It draws back its metal fist and drives it through the windshield. Glass bursts outward in a glittering spray. It reaches through, clamps its hand around Blake’s throat, and hurls him from the car. He hits the asphalt a few feet away, hard.

The Asset drops from the car and approaches Blake in measured, silent steps. He writhes on the asphalt, dragging himself forward, each movement jagged with pain. It isn’t a medic,but judging by the way he moves, there are already several broken ribs—at least.

It grips the back of Blake’s suit jacket and hauls him upright, dragging him toward a nearby tree. With a rough shove, it props him against the trunk. Blake wheezes, mouth open, breath rasping in uneven bursts. His throat works, straining to form words that never make it past the broken sounds in his chest.

Whatever he’s trying to say doesn’t matter. He’ll beg for his life. They always do. And it always listens. It just never grants their wish.

The Asset crouches in front of him, gloved fingers pressing over the fabric of Blake’s pants until they find something solid in his right pocket. It reaches in, pulls out a USB drive, and studies it for a brief moment.

Then it closes its fist. Plastic and metal crunch together. The remains of the drive drop from its hand as it straightens, throwing the shards deep into the dark.

Data retrieved.

When it looks down again, Blake is trying to speak, his lips trembling. His voice comes out strained and broken between ragged breaths. “You—” He coughs, choking on the word. “Fuck—who are you?”

The Asset’s eyes narrow. It doesn’t answer. There’s no reason to engage with a target.

Its metal hand clamps around Blake’s throat, lifting him clean off the ground. His hands claw at the arm, legs kicking weakly, face twisting under the pressure.

Now comes the messy part.

Without hesitating, its flesh hand strikes, punching through Blake’s chest with a sickening force. Skin tears. Bones crack. He gasps, an unbearable sound torn from him, body convulsing against enhanced strength.

It pulls its blood-soaked arm back out and moves to his face. Its fingers sink into his skin, gripping, twisting. Blake screams, high and endless, legs still kicking, but it doesn’t stop. Flesh and features tear away under its unrelenting grip, leaving him unrecognizable. Blood runs freely, coating metal and skin alike.

When it finally releases him, a jagged, bloody void gapes where his face once was. One eye dangles uselessly, the other lost somewhere on the ground. Shattered bone juts out from the ruined flesh, and strips of skin hang loosely from his sides, torn and slick with blood.

His body goes slack. Limbs hang uselessly. Silence falls.

Leak eliminated.

The Asset tosses Blake’s body back against the tree like an empty coat. It slips a hand into its pocket and pulls out the phone it was given. Gloved fingers peel away before it taps the screen. The device is efficient, exactly what Pierce promised. Still, it’s a risk. With a device like this, there’s always a trail. Evidence.

Pierce told it not to worry. As long as the device is destroyed afterward, it doesn’t matter. Pierce has never been wrong. He calls it a burner. It assumes the burning isn’t literal.

It snaps a photo of the wrecked body, studies the image for a good second, then opens the message thread to Pierce. It hesitates, then hits send.

It doesn’t enjoy killing. It doesn’t savor the brutality. But when it doesn’t make a mess, it feels nothing. Empty. Hollow. So it makes the scene ugly on purpose, because the noise and the chaos force something to register inside. Better a scream in its ears than that quiet void.

Is emptiness standard? Do others feel it too? Or is that blankness only for assets like it? It has no answer. Only orders, and the need to be gone before anyone comes.

It crushes the phone beneath its metal hand until the screen spiders, then tosses the ruined device in the same direction it sent the USB.

No witnesses.

Time to take care of the camera footage.

Pierce told it to come to his home afterward for a special reward, then back to the base. It doesn’t know what that means, only that the promise makes something warm and expectant unfurl inside it. Whatever the reward is, it can’t wait to find out.

Alexander

The Asset made quite a mess of its mission. Alexander has seen its handiwork before, he’s come to expect brutality, but this one hits different. Excessive. He’s used to death, but not this kind of death. It’s gruesome. Inhumane.

Then again, inhuman fits the Asset. It isn’t human, and it never will be.

He exhales through his nose and sets the phone aside, refocusing on the half-finished task in front of him. He rinses the last of the berries, letting the water run until the red fades from his fingertips, then drops them into the waiting bowl: strawberries, blueberries, raspberries.

He’d meant to eat them himself. But after that confirmation photo arrived, his appetite vanished.

Fucking hell.

Alexander dries his hands with a towel and carries the bowl of berries to the kitchen table. The Asset only kills with that kind of brutality when he neglects to give specific instructions. By now, it should know better. Messy kills draw attention, something an assassin should never do.

He sets the bowl down a little too hard. He wishes he could be stricter with it, push harder, make it learn. But he doesn’t. The Asset is fragile in its own way, mentally and emotionally. Without the drugs  stabilizing its system, it unravels fast. Spirals. No matter how many memory wipes they perform, no matter how many times they shove it back into cryo, it always comes out the same. Unstable. Damaged.

He remembers the first time he met the Asset. He was younger then, less sure of himself, and the thing in the tube looked almost ageless, frozen in time.

He’d been there when they pulled it out, and he can still recall the fear in the room. Everyone was tense, terrified. The Asset had come out thrashing, wild-eyed, disoriented. It always is, every time it wakes. That first time, it tore through the lab, killed technicians, guards, anyone within reach.

They managed to subdue it only by flooding the room with high-frequency sound waves. The noise dropped it to its knees; it’s always been sensitive to sound. Then came the sedatives, the restraints, the long silence afterward.

It had been a terrifying experience. Not because of the blood or the screams, but because, for that short moment, no one had control.

An unstable asset is a liability they can’t afford. HYDRA may be bigger than ever, but that’s he problem. They can’t risk an asset that unravels. Rumor says the Soviets managed to produce a few of them, hidden away in Russia and left to rot. None of those prototypes match the obedience or programming of the current one, but that’s repairable.

And even if they lose every asset, it won’t matter: this asset will finish its mission, it will serve Project Insight, and then it can die. If it doesn’t die on its own, Rogers will make sure its work is over. Job done. Rest granted.

He leaves the kitchen, crossing into the living room and stops cold.

The Asset stands in the center of the room, mask still on, blood drying dark along both arms. Its eyes, flat and unfocused, are fixed on him.

Alexander’s pulse jumps. He forces himself to swallow, to keep his expression steady. He won’t let it see his surprise. He hadn’t even heard the door, hadn’t heard anything.

Well, there it is.

Of course it is. Say the word reward and everyone comes crawling back like a trained dog. Though this one doesn’t need the promise. It would obey no matter what he said.

The Asset doesn’t deserve rewards, or affection, or anything close to that. It isn’t a man; it’s a weapon. A product. A tool. It doesn’t get to feel or to want things meant for people. But even a weapon has to be maintained. Beating it senseless or letting others rough it up for sport only dulls the edge. A few strikes, a bit of physical correction, fine. But if you treat your equipment like trash, it breaks.

Neglect a blade, and it stops cutting. Leave a shield unpolished, and it rusts. Fail to clean a gun, and it backfires.

And he is no fool. He won’t risk provoking a super-soldier killing machine. So he does what works: small lies, the illusion of warmth, a semblance of care. Pretend affection keeps the leash tight. Keeps the monster calm.

After a long moment of silence, Alexander clears his throat and lets his composure slide neatly back into place. His tone turns easy, confident, like nothing unsettled him.

“That was fast,” he says. “I knew you’d eliminate the target quickly.”

Felix Blake. A smart man. Too smart for his own good. He’d started asking questions, connecting threads best left untouched. He had to be removed before things got complicated, before Fury caught wind of it. Dealing with Fury alone would’ve been a headache, but if that one-eyed bastard dragged the Avengers into it, especially Rogers, that self-righteous little shit, then HYDRA’s quiet resurrection would burn before it bloomed.

The asset doesn’t respond. It only blinks.

“You’ve done an excellent job,” Alexander continues. He catches the faintest flicker in its eyes, the glimmer that always appears when it’s praised. Predictable. “Why don’t you take that mask off? I feel out of place talking to you like this.”

He makes it sound like a request, but both of them know better. Every word he speaks is a command.

The Asset nods once and reaches up to unbuckle the straps. The mask comes away, revealing its mouth and nose, clean-shaven this time. The medics must have done some dental work. It turns, sets the mask on the coffee table with careful precision. Not a sound.

Alexander watches. Then, gently, “Are you ready to receive your reward?”

The Asset’s gaze rises to meet his. That faint glimmer still flickers in its eyes as it nods, waiting for instruction.

“Very well,” Alexander says, voice smug, testing. “Come on, then. Kneel.”

It obeys instantly. No hesitation. No thought. Compliance is all it knows. It drops to its knees, hands resting neatly in front, eyes locked on him, unblinking.

“Stay,” Alexander says in a soothing voice before retreating back to the kitchen.

When he returns, the bowl of berries is in his hands. He sets it on the table beside the discarded mask. Then he sits, settling back into the couch, eyes never leaving the Asset.

The Asset doesn’t move. Blank eyes. Perfect posture. That unnatural stillness. Its obedience fascinates him, almost as much as it satisfies him.

“You’ve only got a few missions left,” Alexander says, plucking a raspberry from the bowl and rolling it between his fingers. “Are you glad? That you finally get to retire?”

Retirement. The word tastes almost sweet. And in a way, it’s the truth. Death is the only kind of retirement it will ever know.

It only narrows it eyes, as if uncertain how to respond. As if the only way to answer might be with words. But it never speaks. It groans, it screams, it grunts, but words? Never. Alexander doesn’t know if it’s incapable or simply unwilling. Either way, he couldn’t care less.

Still, the silence can be bothersome.

“Get over here.”

The Asset pushes one leg forward, ready to rise from the ground.

“No, no,” Alexander says, voice firm enough to cut through the air. The Asset stops mid-motion. “Not like that. You know how we do this.”

It stares at him for a long, silent second before lowering itself again. Palms touch the floor. It moves forward slowly until it reaches him. Like a trained pet, it stops in front of him. Alexander watches, a flicker of satisfaction tightening his jaw as he lifts his hand and holds out his palm toward it.

“Can’t talk?” Alexander asks, though the question’s more for himself than for it. He already knows the answer. “Write it down,” he says after a pause. “Letter by letter.”

The Asset tilts its head, confusion flickering across its expression, but then it lifts one finger and presses it against his palm. Slowly, it traces each letter.

When it finishes, four letters stand out in his mind: K-I-L-L.

Kill? Kill who? It can’t mean him. The Asset wouldn’t dare lay a finger on its handlers. It knows better than that. So what the hell is it talking about?

Alexander arches a brow. “Elaborate.”

The Asset exhales quiet, but unmistakably annoyed. The sound catches him off guard. Irritation? From it? Maybe he’s been too lenient. Far too lenient.

Then the finger moves again, dragging slow lines across his palm. K-I-L-L. Again. Followed by M-O-R-E.

“I see,” Alexander says, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You don’t want to retire, do you? You want to keep killing.”

The Asset shakes its head, then presses its finger to his palm once more. S-E-R-V-E.

Ah. He gets it now. The realization pulls a genuine smile from him, smug, satisfied, and almost sweet. “You want to keep serving me.”

The Asset nods.

He can hardly believe it. Actually, no, he can. This is exactly what he’s been cultivating. The Asset lives in isolation, surrounded by staff who treat it like a malfunctioning machine, a burden to be managed. So the scraps of attention he offers, the illusion of kindness. They’re heaven to it. The only warmth it knows.

As monstrous as it is, the thing still craves connection. Maybe it needs someone to care for it. Or maybe it just needs someone to obey. Someone to follow.

Alexander’s smile lingers as he reaches out, catching a loose strand of the Asset’s hair between his fingers and idly curling it. The hair is oily, unkempt. He’ll have to wash his hands later.

But the gesture keeps him thinking. The Asset shouldn’t feel anything, shouldn’t want or yearn or even think beyond its orders. It’s supposed to be hollow inside. Empty. That’s what all the conditioning was for. The drugs, the torture, the endless erasing. He’d hoped emptiness would be the end result.

Oh, well.

“I appreciate your loyalty,” Alexander says softly. “We all do. And I know you want to be useful, but retirement is a good thing. You’ve already made the world a better place. When your final mission is done, you can rest. I’ll take care of you.”

The Asset stares up at him, blank and obedient. There’s understanding in its eyes, or something close to it, but no will behind it. Acceptance without agreement.

Alexander releases the strand of hair and lifts his other hand. The single raspberry still rests between his fingers. He holds it to the Asset’s mouth. It glances at the berry, then looks back up at him, waiting for permission.

“Take it,” he murmurs. “A promise is a promise.”

The Asset obeys. It leans forward, catches the berry between its lips, and chews slowly, eyes never leaving his. When it swallows, Alexander presses his thumb against its mouth, pulling down the lower lip just enough to reveal a flash of teeth.

This is what he’ll miss about the Asset: the absolute compliance. The silence. The certainty that it will never fight back, never question, never complain. A pity, really. But all good things come to an end.

He reaches for the bowl again, plucks another berry between his fingers, and says, “Good. Have some more.”

Chapter Text

Nick

Five missed calls.

Five missed calls Nick didn’t answer that night, too busy getting a decent night’s sleep instead of looking out for one of his own. And this is the result: Blake’s lifeless body slumped against a tree, his face unrecognizable if not for the ID in his wallet.

This is not how he expected to start his day.

He was supposed to meet Blake, not stand over his corpse. He got the call twenty minutes ago from the feds, claiming one of his agents had been murdered. Witnesses insisted it was a car accident, but anyone with at least one eye can tell that’s bullshit. Forensics is split between calling it a wild animal attack or murder.

Nick doesn’t need a report to know which one it is. This wasn’t random. This was an execution.

Why else would Blake have gone silent? No texts. No voice messages. Nothing. Because he was murdered right after he called. The last call came in at 00:24 a.m. If Nick’s right, Blake was dead minutes later. The body was found around 3:00 a.m., two hours ago. No witnesses. No footage. Every security feed in the area wiped clean. Whatever happened, someone wanted it buried.

And that confirms what Blake had feared all along: something is wrong inside S.H.I.E.L.D. His questions had gotten too close to the truth, and someone made sure he’d never ask another.

But how? How did they know what he was digging into? Nick didn’t tell anyone. That much he’s sure of. Maybe Blake trusted the wrong person. Someone with power, influence, or worse.

Nick drags his fingers up and down between his temples, trying to ease the pressure building there. A headache’s coming on, right alongside the urge to throw up, even on an empty stomach.

Would a professional really do this? Kill an agent this way? It’s too brutal, too messy. There’s nothing calculated about it. This isn’t an execution. It’s carnage. Whoever did this didn’t just want Blake dead. They wanted him destroyed. Torn apart.

That’s not the work of a hired gun. That’s someone unstable. Someone who enjoys it.

But… looking at the wounds, and what forensics reported, maybe this wasn’t the work of a person at all. A hole clean through the chest. Skin and flesh torn away. Face gone. The kill look more monster than man.

Could it have been personal? Or was the timing just coincidence? No. He doesn’t believe in coincidence. Not in this line of work. Not when an agent ends up like this.

“Excuse me?”

The voice cuts through the murmur of agents and forensics chatter, familiar. The only voice Nick actually wants to hear right now.

He turns toward the line of officers crowding the edge of the crime scene tape. It’s Romanoff. She’s speaking to one of the officers, irritation written all over her face. He’d called her the moment the feds reached out to him, but even so, he’s surprised she got here this fast. She must’ve already been nearby.

Nick starts walking toward her, the conversation between her and the officer growing clearer with each step.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer says. “I can’t let you through. This is an active crime scene. No one gets past the tape without clearance.”

Romanoff exhales sharply through her nose. “You can’t be serious…” She digs through her purse, fingers rustling against metal and leather. “Hold on, let me get my—”

“It’s alright, officer,” Nick cuts in as he finally reaches them. The officer straightens immediately. Romanoff’s expression softens when she turns toward Nick. “She’s with me.”

“Uh, sir?” The officer glances at Nick, uncertainty in his voice. “Unless she’s here for investigations, I can’t let her through.”

Ah. One of those types. Stubborn. The easiest to mess with.

Nick fixes him with a look, his brow arching. “Are you assuming she’s not here to investigate? That she’s not cleared for this job? Why, is it because she’s a woman?”

“What? I—” the officer stammers, eyes darting between Nick and Romanoff. “No, that’s—God, no.”

“Then get the hell out of the way,” Nick snaps. “And stop wasting our damn time.”

The officer nods quickly, stepping aside and lifting the tape for her. Romanoff passes under it with a small, teasing grin, the kind that says she’s enjoying this far more than she should, before falling into step beside Nick. Together, they walk toward Blake’s corpse.

“You know I could’ve just shown him my badge, right?” Romanoff says, glancing sideways at him.

“I know,” Nick replies, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, “But I like messing with people. Besides, it’s gotta sting—saving the world and still not getting recognized by anyone.”

Romanoff chuckles under her breath. “Hard to stand out when you’ve got a literal god and a billionaire taking the spotlight.”

Their smiles fade the second they reach Blake. Somehow, the body looks even worse than before. Nick glances at Romanoff, who’s staring down at the corpse, brows drawn tight.

Most people say she’s impossible to read. But he’s known her long enough to catch what others miss. She’s disturbed. Maybe even horrified. And that says a lot. Sure, she’s an ex-assassin, but in her line of work, death was quick and clean. What’s in front of them isn’t something you see everyday.

“What happened?” she asks,eyes still on the body.

“Felix Blake. One of ours. He called me yesterday, wanted a meeting. Said he’d found something inside the agency. Something corrupt. He wanted proof before going public.”

Romanoff finally looks up. “And you think someone took him out for it?”

“No,” Nick says, his voice firm. “I know they did.”

“They? Who’s they?”

He wishes he had an answer. Blake’s death didn’t just prove his suspicions right, it confirmed his worst fears. Something’s going on inside S.H.I.E.L.D., spreading deeper than he thought. But who’s behind it? How far does it go? How many of his people can he even trust?

He glances back at the body. The questions keep multiplying, the answers slipping away. Whatever this is, it’s big. And if S.H.I.E.L.D. really is compromised, then he’s one of the few people who can keep it from falling apart.

“I don’t know yet,” Nick says. “But I’ll make sure to find out soon enough. I want you to keep an eye on this too.”

Romanoff folds her arms. “You want me to find out what Blake might’ve seen?”

“Yes.” His gaze sweeps the area, then he steps in closer, lowering his voice. “We already checked his car. Nothing. His phone was clean, too.” He pauses, eyes flicking toward the stretch of trees beyond the tape. “But there was a crushed phone and a destroyed USB drive a few miles from here.”

“Let me guess,” Romanoff says quietly, her tone lowering to match his. “The drive belonged to Blake. Whatever he found, whatever proof he had, it was on there. The killer destroyed it. And the phone… maybe Blake had a burner. Or maybe neither had anything to do with the murder. Could’ve just been someone cleaning up junk.”

“I doubt that. Both were crushed the same way. One of the investigators said the marks looked like they came from a metal weapon. Or something really heavy.”

“So they’re checking for prints?”

“They are,” Nick says, then sighs. “But they won’t find anything.”

Romanoff narrows her eyes. “You sound certain.”

“This might not look like the cleanest kill,” he says, “but trust me, this was professional. Maybe the killer wasn’t, but someone wanted Blake gone, and they knew exactly how to make him disappear.”

Romanoff’s eyes drift back to the body. “Or maybe this isn’t just a hit. Maybe it’s a message. A warning. Whoever did this knew we’d see it. What if they wanted to scare us of?”

“Could be. But it’s not working, is it?”

Romanoff meets his gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching into a faint smile. “No.”

She starts walking off, probably because she’s had enough of looking at what’s left of Blake’s face, the exposed flesh, the shattered bone. Nick follows her toward the tape.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll see what I can do. Does Cap know about this?”

“No,” Nick answers. “I’d rather keep this between us for now. And he’s got enough on his plate after coming out of the ice. He needs a break.” He pauses, then adds dryly, “And I’m not in the mood for Rogers’s attitude. The man cannot let anyone else take the lead.”

Romanoff huffs a small laugh. “Good call.”

Nick doesn’t know how he’s going to handle this. The agency has exposed a rot no report can sanitize. If Blake had at least told him where he was going or what he was chasing, Fury might have a lead. But he didn’t. The killer was thorough; they cleaned all trails.

That only makes him angrier. Whoever is behind this killed one of his people. Nick’s not the sort to let a murder sit like this. He’ll dig. He’ll pry. He’ll burn whatever needs burning to find whoever ordered this.

He’ll avenge Blake and anyone else who falls to the same hand. No excuses. No delays.

The Asset

The chair is cold. Hard. Metal. It hates the chair. There’s no comfort in it, just straps and steel and the sting of needles pushing through its skin. Hands move across its bare arms and shoulders: some cold, some warm, all unwelcome. It can feel the drugs crawling through its veins, flooding its empty head, making its body go limp.

The lights are too bright. The voices too loud. The room too cold.

They always get rougher when they drug it. Touching, hitting, muttering things it doesn’t understand. It wants to move, to fight, but the drugs drags it down like chains around its mind. So it stays still. Obedient. Quiet.

The Asset turns its head slowly to the side. One of the technicians sits nearby, working on its arm. They always do this after missions. Checking for wounds, repairing torn muscle, making sure the metal still obeys. It’s routine.

But it doesn’t know what the technician is actually doing. It never does. The drugs keep its mind fogged, thoughts sliding apart before they can form. It tries to focus on the movement, on the cold press of metal against skin, but nothing makes sense.

Why do they pretend to care? The technician’s touch is almost gentle, but that can’t be real. Are they trained to act like this? Is it part of the protocol? Or maybe Pierce told them to take care of it. He would want it to stay operational and useful.

It doesn’t think Pierce knows how the operatives treat it when he’s not around; the pain they cause just because they can. But it doesn’t tell him. It can’t. The last thing it wants is to disappoint him. Pierce wants it calm and controlled. And it wants to be, too. It wants to show him that it can take whatever they give it without breaking.

The technician finally pulls the tool he’s been using away, setting it back on the tray. He lingers, staring at the arm like he’s proud of his work, then gives it a light pat. It’s playful, but the cruel, mocking grin that follows ruins the motion.

“Good little asset,” he snickers, voice dripping with false sweetness.

The others laugh. Low, mean sounds that echo in the room. Their eyes stay on it, waiting for a reaction. They always do. They like seeing it small, humiliated.

It doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares straight ahead. The drugs keep it quiet, but even without them, it knows better. Obedience is survival. Anger is punishment. So it swallows the noise that wants to rise, lets their laughter wash over it, and stays still.

“Hey,” the technician calls out, glancing over his shoulder. “Do we have permission to wipe it?”

One of the agents across the room steps forward. “You know we can’t. Not without Pierce’s say-so. And it looks fine to me. Besides, I can’t stand listening to it scream every time we run a wipe. Hurts my fucking ears.”

“Fine,” the technician mutters, irritation thick in his voice. He pushes back the chair and circles around the Asset. “Come on. Move it. Get up and take a shower. You smell like dogshit.”

Laughter breaks out again at the technician’s remark. The words hit like a command prompt.

The Asset doesn’t react. Doesn’t look at any of them. It just moves in slow, mechanical steps. Two agents fall in at its sides, rifles held low but ready. Their boots click in rhythm with its dragging steps as they guide it down the corridor toward the medical wing.

—

It stands beneath the showerhead, stripped bare, water falling over its hair and shoulders in cold sheets. The shock of it bites at its skin. It hates showers, hates the way the chill sinks in. The chair, the chamber, the water. It’s all the same: cold, empty, and necessary.

But it endures. It always does. Comfort is a privilege, not a requirement. Comfort is for the weak.

The Asset reaches down. A flick of the cap. Shampoo in its palm. Fingers through its hair. It leans into the spray again, eyes half-lidded as the foam disappears down the drain.

It should feel like peace in the silence, but it doesn’t. The quiet feels too large. No voices. No commands. No eyes watching. It’s grateful for that, and yet, it isn’t. The absence gnaws at something deep inside. It wants direction, a voice to obey, a hand to hold on to. It doesn’t understand why. It only knows that being alone feels wrong.

Assets don’t exist without handlers. And, perhaps, neither do handlers without their assets.

The sudden silence of the water startles it more than the touch itself. The stream cuts off with a sharp click, leaving only the sound of dripping water. It hadn’t heard anyone come in. The drugs must still be dulling its senses.

Slowly, it turns.

One of the agents stands there, one of the escorts from before, his uniform still crisp, his expression carrying a smirk the others wear when they think the Asset isn’t really someone at al. Just something.

The Asset takes an instinctive step back, muscles tightening, droplets trailing down the lines of its body. It doesn’t reach for a towel. Doesn’t try to hide. Modesty isn’t part of its programming. Confusion lingers, though.

Is it time to move again? To get dressed?  Back to the technicians? To Pierce?

It lowers its gaze, unsure, waiting for a command. It wants to ask what the man wants. Wishes it could raise its voice.

“Hello there,” the agent says at last, his tone low and amused, eyes dragging slowly down the Asset’s body.

The Asset blinks once, then frowns.

“You don’t remember our last encounter, do you?” the man asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

…Their last encounter?

It blinks again, trying to find something inside its fogged mind that matches the words. Nothing surfaces. The drugs blur everything. The missions, the orders, the handlers; they all bleed together until they’re nothing.

The agent’s smirk deepens at the lack of response.

The Asset stays silent. It knows this is a trap. It’s always a trap when they talk like this, trying to provoke something out of it. But there’s nothing to provoke. No memory. No answer.

Finally, it shakes its head.

He pouts, exaggerated and false. “That’s a shame. You really enjoyed the game we played last time. You were good at it, too. A real professional. I figured we could go for round two.”

The Asset stares, uncomprehending. It doesn’t know what “game” he’s talking about. Doesn’t remember anything he’s saying. The man’s words feel wrong. Too smooth, too kind. Why is he smiling like that? Why is he standing so close? It doesn’t understand.

But the praise… the praise sinks deep. Good. It was good at the game. A professional. That means it did well. It wants to do well again.

“Turn around,” the agent murmurs, the smirk never leaving his smug face. “Stay still”

The Asset obeys. The shower wall is cold against its palms. A metallic click behind it, then the gun’s muzzle kisses the hollow beneath its jaw, forcing to tilt its head up. The agent’s free hand settles on its hip, obsessive, thumb tracing the ridge of bone. Fingers slide upward, cupping one of its pecs.

It swallows once, a traitor reflex. The gun barrel grinds deeper, promising to pull the trigger if the swallow happens again.

His thumb finds its nipple and rubs it. “Hair this long, face scraped bare… almost pass for a woman.”

It remembers. Not pictures, but sensations. The same touch, the same laughter, the same threat against its jaw. It stomach knots at the memory. It remembers the anger. The disgust. The pain. It wants to bite the hand, wants to scream, but the gun is a period at the end of every noise it’s never allowed to make.

So it stays still. Good assets don’t ruin the game.

His hand drifts lower, palm skating the ridge of its spine until it cups its butt. Fingers dig in with a single brutal squeeze. Its breath hitches, but the sound never leaves its throat. The gun keeps it caged.

Knead, stretch, release. A slap smacks across the flesh. The sting blooms hot, then colder than the water. It hates the heat just as much as it hates the cold.

Two fingers part the cleft and settle against the ring of muscle like a question it’s not allowed to refuse, and the Asset’s pulse spikes in response.

This feeling… it’s just like the water and the chair and the chamber. It doesn’t want this. But it shouldn’t want, shouldn’t not-want. Blank slate, blank slate. But the fury rises anyway, wordless, scalding the back of its tongue.

The agent must feel its rising anger and chuckles, low. “Easy,” he murmurs. “Good assets take what’s given.”

It is a good asset. It always has been. Needs to be. For rewards. For warmth. For Pierce.

But then the agent’s fingers circle, press, wait. Its nostrils flare wide. The frown cuts deep between its brows. The gun barrel shifts, a reminder, but the reminder is late. Its mind is already elsewhere.

The agent leans closer, mistaking stillness for surrender. “There we go,” he croons. “Back in your place.”

A red wave erases every thought. Drugs. Chair. Pierce. All of it fades away in a single blink.

The Asset’s metal hand snaps up,fingers closing around the barrel. Steel folds with a shriek, the slide crumpling inward before the trigger can be pulled. The ruined gun clatters to the tile, broken.

The agent’s grip tears free of its buttocks. The Asset turns around, shoulder dropping, and drives its flesh fist into the man’s chest. His body leaves the ground, spine meeting tile with a wet crack.

It rushes toward him, knees pinning ribs. Its fingers knot in hair, yanking his head back. Thumbs, one warm, the other cold, find his soft eye sockets. It presses. Slowly. Painfully. The agent’s scream is loud and ear shattering. Orbital bones collapse inward with twin wet pops, the blood beads and runs down his face, mixing with tears.

The metal fist rises and slams against his face. Jaw dislocates with a sound like splintered wood, teeth scattering across the floor in bloody chunks. Its other hand clamps the throat and pulls. Hard.

Skin parts in a wet zipper. Trachea tears free in a red rope, a part of his spine glinting white before the spray obscures them. The body jerks once, then slumps with a thud. Blood pools, flowing between the tiles.

Its chest rises and falls in jagged pulls. Blood drips down it face, chest, and abs. It’s everywhere. The rage is louder than it ever has been. Louder than any storm. Louder than the footsteps pounding on tile.

The other escort skids through the doorway, rifle already up. His gaze flicks to the red pulp that used to be the other agent, then snaps to the Asset, eyes wide. The rifle trembles once, then steadies.

“Shit!” The word rips out, half curse, half prayer. “That fucking monster killed Johnson! I need backup and tranqs, heavy dose, now!” His voice cracks over the comm.

The Asset hears none of it. It wants more. The metal arm flexes, the plates whirring, as it takes a slow step toward him.

“Stay the fuck back!” he yells. “Or I’ll shoot your fucking face off!”

Another step, and the rifle fires. The Asset’s metal arm whips up, bullets spark off the metal, ricochets pinging. Spent bullets clatter and roll.

But the drugs are still in its veins and blurring its mind. Reflexes sludge. One bullet punches through its chest, burrows deep between ribs. Another tears across the abdomen, parting muscle in a red grin. The Asset staggers, a low animal sound punching out of its throat.

The agent ceases fire, rifle smoking. It keeps walking toward him. One step, two, knees buckling under the weight of its own blood. Its vision blurs, edges turning black. It sinks, knees hitting the tile with a wet crack, skull following shortly after. Blood seeps from the holes in its chest and gut, warm, then cooling.

Why? Why did it disobey? Why did it kill? Why did it snap at the agent? The need to comply had been absolute, carved into bone. It’s the fist of HYDRA, and the fist does not choose. Yet the fist had chosen. Had curled and struck and torn.

It sees Pierce’s face in the black. Not angry. Disappointed. The way a parent looks at a dog that bit the child it was playing with. The chair waits. Metal. Straps. Pain. If the bullets don’t finish it, the redet will. Memory flayed again, anger cauterized, the blank slate wiped clean.

The Asset tries to cling to the rage, the one thing that felt like its, but the blood loss drags it under. The last thing it sees are the agent’s boots, retreating, shouting for the chair. No… it doesn’t want to forget again.

But the darkness swallows its last thought.