Chapter Text
“Prep her.”
“She’s been out of cryofreeze for too long. She…she’s too erratic…unstable.”
“Then wipe her and start over.”
Spoken in Russian, you hear their words but remain motionless. It is a second language to you now, or maybe it always was—you can’t remember. They haven’t spoken to you or given you an order, so you remain sitting in the chair, staring blankly ahead.
You understand their words, but they don’t affect you.
You know what’s coming but are unafraid.
The Asset is never afraid.
Hands push against you, lowering you back against the headrest. You catch a whiff of ozone and leather as they shove the disgusting mouthpiece between your teeth, but you accept it anyway. The men nod at your compliance, but you feel no pride in their approval.
You have no pride. No feelings at all.
You are simply the Asset.
Clamps fasten over your biceps and wrists, binding you to the chair. Machinery whirrs behind you, rotating towards your head. Your breathing quickens, an involuntary response…the muscle memory of repeated torture.
It's not until the sparks began to fly that something deep within you shifts ever so slightly, and you began to tremble.
A high-pitched whine, and the world goes white as your skull splits in two.
You scream.
*
Awareness comes back to you slowly, the room swimming back into focus. You are seated in a chair, leather and steel, but you don't know how you got there. Your mind is a blank slate, and you drift.
There is movement out of the corner of your eye, and a man steps up next to you, a red notebook held open in his hand.
“Trestle.”
His voice is cold and commanding, and you stare obediently ahead.
“Celestial.”
“Twelve.”
Deep within you that weak thing is still fighting, and you clench your jaw to silence it.
“Bullet.”
“Warming.”
Your body trembles as the thing within you struggles to the surface.
“Five.”
“Hillside.”
Wait—how did you get here? What’s happening?
“Turntable.”
“Three.”
Your head twitches involuntarily. You remember this…this is bad…this is…
“Sparrow.”
You are nothing. A tool, a blank canvas. You are no one.
You are the Asset.
A pause as the man closes the book.
“Good morning, sol—"
The last word dies in the man’s mouth as a shot rings out, overloud in the cavernous space. Wet warmth sprays the side of your face, but you don’t flinch, don’t even blink. The man’s body slumps to the floor, dead before he hits the ground.
Three figures step into view, and your eyes shift to them appraisingly. They are not dressed like the guards.
One is tall and carries a round shield with a star on it, but you don’t see a weapon. The woman next to him has red hair, slenderly built and dressed in a black suit, positively dripping with weaponry.
The other man is almost as tall as the first and dressed in black leather. Long brunette hair hangs in his face, and he slowly lowers his gun, still smoking from the shot fired. His left arm is incased in metal, and the red star on his shoulder looks remotely familiar. His eyes flick to yours, and you feel something shift deep within you as you stare at his grey-blue eyes.
You know him.
He must be your handler.
You look at him expectantly, awaiting further orders. He shifts on his feet nervously, and the man in blue whispers something to him. With a shake of his head, he steps towards you.
“Good morning, Soldat.”
The words are barely audible, almost as if it pains the man to say them. Yet their meaning is clear. You sit up straighter in the chair and once again look forward. The handlers don’t like eye contact.
“Ready to comply.”