Chapter Text
Its handlers are not happy. It doesn’t know the full details, of course, but it was removed from storage several months ago, and that is a serious problem.
It knows the operating orders for the Winter Soldier are deployments of no more than two weeks at any time; if a handler fails to return it on time, its programming will direct it to disengage from whatever assignment had run over and travel back to base independent of its handler. The few times that has happened, the handler did not appear in any subsequent thaws, even if they took place only a few months or years later. It does not know how it knows this. There is no list of handlers in its head. But handlers that have come before spark recognition even when there is no name or story to go with them within the Asset’s perpetually short-term memory.
It hasn’t been deployed yet, which is another abnormality. Asset use protocols are clear: defrost, inspect, outfit, deploy, retrieve, repair, wipe, store. It has read its operation manual, in order to function more smoothly with the handlers trained off of it. No part of the 90 yellowing pages of typeset instructions and observations called for two months in a cell before deployment. Its new handlers, after the sale, are different, but not that different. The problem, from what little the handlers have told it, is the target. This deployment needs to be subtle, appear as a vehicular accident, and the target keeps changing his schedule, aged but still-wily prey. The handlers have inspected and outfitted the Asset on three separate instances during this thaw, only to have to abort deployment due to the mission “not being where he’s goddamn supposed to be, I thought you had fucking people on him, he works at goddamn SHIELD for fuck's sake, walk down the hall.”
When each mission is aborted, the handlers cannot finish the pattern, and so there is this waiting. The waiting is… confusing. The cell is dark, darker than unenhanced eyes could see in, and even the Asset’s gaze finds little detail in the blank concrete walls. The cell's location at the end of a seldom-used hallway makes it entirely silent. It’s perpetually too cold, and the Soldier is beginning to develop a feeling about the temperature (dislike), which is a major malfunction that would ordinarily cause mission abort. But a mission that was already aborted cannot be any more undone, and its presence in the cell is already the outcome of malfunction, although on the part of the handler and his staff. Not punishable. Other malfunctions have begun developing within the last few days. There are rations stacked in the corner of the cell, and it has required a much larger portion of them than usual. The ones marked “Corned Beef Hash” make flashes go off in its head. There have been cognitive errors -- glimpses of people it has never seen, atypical diction, memory fragments, questions -- the type clearly described in its operation manual as indicating a need for immediate reconditioning, but none of its handlers have appeared to inspect its condition in the weeks since the latest deployment abort. Its skin has begun to feel warmer than baseline, with a slightly elevated heart rate, although it has done nothing but sit, sleep, and perform maintenance calisthenics. The urge to pace, to search for something missing, has grown stronger within the last several days of increased malfunction, though it has resisted thus far.
It is finishing its weekly body maintenance with the small spigot set several feet off the floor, at a height appropriate to facilitate hosing down the room once emptied -- odors and grease distract handlers and draw civilian attention, unacceptable, and its odor has been growing markedly stronger within the last several days -- when there are footsteps at the far end of the hallway outside. The utter silence of this section of the compound make the specifics relatively obvious: Two guards, combat boots, approximately six-foot, one with a slight limp, carrying something heavy between them. The faint grunts and rustling suggest the heavy object is living, moving, mostly likely human. Another asset would not be struggling, and a disloyal or excessively incompetent underling would have already been executed, making the human a prisoner. Though they could not possibly be mission-relevant, it follows the sounds anyway, identifying them as a welcome break to the monotony of nothingness and malfunction the Asset has been sinking into since it was stored here. They approach, and then a key scrapes into its door, not one of the nearby cells. It opens, an arc of sudden light spilling onto the cell floor that briefly dazzles the Soldier’s dark-adapted eyes. When they clear, the guard has reached back and is carrying the presumed prisoner again, stepping into the cell with his burden.
The Asset observes for a moment. Pale, dark hair, slender frame that speaks of youth, male. Entirely naked but for a heavy gag strapped into place and the equally sturdy leather cuffs around his ankles and wrists, closed with small padlocks and linked wrist-to-ankle in the reasonably secure X of a hog-tie. Abundant bruises and abrasions of varying severity; assuming baseline human healing, some must be at least a week old, while others are far newer. His scent is. His scent. Is. It makes flashes like the “Corned Beef Hash” in the Asset’s head. It moves away from the wall, closer to the prisoner, without having any intention of doing so. Just as the second guard steps into the cell, bearing the young man’s bound legs, the prisoner’s head snaps up, nostrils flaring. He abruptly starts struggling again, much more fiercely, grunting and yanking his limbs against the binding in a manner that almost seems frantic. The guards drop him from waist-height, unevenly, and he lands on his right shoulder hard enough to cause a wet pop and a loud gasp of pain. The front guard looks over at the Asset and smiles with too many teeth as he turns back to the prisoner.
“You think that hurts? You see that?” the guard asks, and then reaches down to grab the man’s curly dark hair and yank his head up, making him look at the Asset. “That rutting alpha’s the thing that makes monsters afraid, and you, little bitch --” the guard breaks off to run two fingers between the man’s legs, pressing against his perineum and dragging up towards his lower back, “are starting to smell real sweet. All those fancy suppressants washed right out while the boss asked his questions, and you aren’t good for much at all now. Well, besides taking care of the rut your meddling left it awake to have. Rut’s been cooking a week already, stinking out the place, and I hear the Asset gets a little… feral when it’s alone too long. Hey, maybe it’ll even leave enough to bury, bet Mommy’ll like that. Well, ‘til the Asset does its job, anyway. Then she and your old man won’t like jack shit ever again.” The guard releases the man’s hair and aims a sharp kick at his already-bruised side before stepping over his prone form and closing the door.
The loss of light requires the Asset’s eyes to adjust again, during which they key scrapes the lock closed again. With another blink, they clear enough to focus on the young man. Heedless of his bonds and injury, the man is squirming, pressing himself back toward the door inch by painful, wriggling inch, panting and whining faintly through the gag. After a few moments, he seems to wedge himself into the corner opposite the Asset as best he can. The scent gets stronger in the dark, confined space. It makes thinking hard. The flashes keep happening. But it’s interesting, it smells… right. It -- that smell, there shouldn’t be pain. There should be, should… there’s another one of the, the -- flash -- long, curly dark hair -- flash -- a woman laughing and shooing children out of the house, the man behind her kissing her neck -- flash -- flash -- high giggles and a gasp, but a happy one -- flash -- flash -- flash -- stew like and not-like the ration -- flash -- flash -- flash -- flash. The Asset groan and braces its metal hand against the wall, the flesh one rubbing at its head. Something is wrong with it, but something is more wrong that the smell, that sweet smell, has fear and pain layered over it.
It approaches the prisoner to investigate, and the fear-smell get stronger, the whimpering and wriggling against the door more pronounced but less intentful. Probably panic, then, mind hazed with pain and fear and -- something whispers that the smell means it can be hard to think, be careful not to press them even a little when they smell like that, alphas doing that just ain’t right. Even if the diction hadn’t marked the thought as a malfunction, the Asset must disregard its demands. The guard identified it as an alpha, but it must apply pressure to reduce the shoulder before the dislocation causes escalating pain and potential long-term damage, much less the further injury the man’s struggling could inflict. The whimpers get much louder when the Asset stands over him, seizing the chain connecting his injured arm to the opposite ankle and snapping it easily. It kneels next to the man, pulling and rolling him so that his back rests against the Asset’s thighs, his injured right arm tucked close to its belly, and the skin contact feels. Feels. The flashes are there again, stronger, but the man requires aid, needs, needs someone to take care of him when he’s like this. It ignores the internal distraction and the man’s panicked whimpers and lopsided struggling in equal measure, grasping his arm at the biceps with the flesh hand and pulling slowly downward as its metal fingers find and guide the humerus forward and into its joint. After a few seconds of steady pressure, the bone shifts back into place with a soft clunk, and the man in the Soldier’s lap gasps in relief.
With the most pressing issue addressed, the Asset begins to inspect the man’s other’s injuries. The bruising and lacerations confirm several beatings, spaced apart, and a thin layer of grime covers the man’s body. Dirt and open wounds are not an acceptable combination. The man starts to stir, the panic and endorphins in his system likely leading to further ill-advised resistance, so the Soldier takes advantage of the man’s confusion following the reduction to snap the other chain and scoop him up, carrying him to the spigot on the other side of the room. It turns the water on, releasing a stream of the only temperature, icy, the spigot ever offers. That seems wrong, too. Omegas should have all the nice warm things they want when they’re in heat, warm meals and warm baths and warm blankets and warm Alphas. The Asset blinks. Heat. That’s what the word for that smell is, that’s why the man’s body looks somewhat different to its own. Omega. Heat. It tucks this information away for future consideration as it begins to bathe the -- the omega in its arms, cleaning his wounds in lieu of being able to offer any proper medical care. The man flinches and shakes when the water hits him, but does not interfere with the cleaning until near the end, stirring and trying to wriggle away. The Asset allows it, head tilting as it watches the omega push himself along the wall and into the adjacent corner, as far away from the Soldier as possible without risking the open middle of a cell he cannot see. That is the typical reaction to the Soldier’s presence, and it takes the movement as indication that the omega’s wits are potentially returning.
Once pressed as far into the corner as his recent injury will allow, the omega starts to fumble with the gag with his left arm. Unlike the wrist and ankle restraints, the gag is secured with nothing more than a simple strap and buckle closure, and within moments the omega has his mouth free, working his jaw where the ball had strained it. The omega says nothing, though his eyes roam constantly around the darkness of the cell, likely trying to pick out detail, however futile the effort. He draws his legs up against his chest, briefly increasing the smell before it tamps down to a constant simmering presence. His left arm wraps around his knees, and the cell’s two residents sit in silence for a long while, the Asset studying the omega while he stares blindly into the darkness of the cell.
Eventually, a soft clicking sound draws the Asset’s attention, and it quickly identifies it as teeth chattering. The omega isn’t just sitting still, now, but shivering, limbs faintly shaking with the cell’s baseline cold, no doubt worsened by the cleaning and subsequent close contact with heat-leaching concrete walls. The tremors gradually worsen over the next few minutes, accompanied by the low gurgle of an empty stomach, as the Asset considers. Something in its head insists that the omega should be warm and comfortable and any nearby alphas should be making sure that was the case. That it was the only nearby alpha, why wasn’t it helping, the omega needs it. He needed a big bed full of soft things and sweet little snacks and -- things that are not available here. The omega’s stomach rumbles again and his shaking worsens fractionally, and the alpha snaps into motion, silently crossing the cell to pick the omega up again. When the Asset touches him, he startles badly, thrashing, but only weakly, muscles beginning to lock up from cold. The faint movements are insufficient to interrupt the Asset’s picking him up and carrying him across the cell to the stock of rations. Its handlers had left it an entire pallet of the rations, held in multiple identical boxes, and it had rapidly identified the boxes as a resource to separate it from the unpleasant cold of the cell’s concrete floors. Even with the rate at which it has been consuming supplies, there is still a double layer of boxes stacked three across and five long, and it deposits the omega atop the stacks of cardboard easily enough. The close contact had revealed his skin, and presumably core, temperatures were still unacceptably low, and so the Asset retrieves one of the more palatable (palatable implies preference, unacceptable, report to handlers for reconditioning) ration bags and climbs on top of the omega, skin pressed against skin for the full lengths of their bodies. The omega panics and thrashes more, but his temperature is still unacceptable and the Soldier simply settles itself a bit more securely over his chest, pinning the omega’s functioning left arm against his body with its right elbow. It opens the ration, retrieving the crackers, jelly, oatmeal bar, and dried fruit. Foods high in sugar will induce the omega’s core temperature to rise as the body processes them, and omegas deserve treats in heat, deserve to feel warm and good and safe. It smears the jelly across the cracker and pushes the edge against the omega’s lips. His eyes are wide, unseeing, but his lips part at the pressure, taking a small bite. Excellent. His face scrunches slightly at the taste, an expression that seems almost… cute, but takes a larger bite right away, the need for calories overwhelming his preferences. As he eats, his struggles slow, and by the time the Asset is pressing the last of the block of dried fruit through his pretty lips, the omega is laying still under it and his shivering has largely stopped.
The man’s voice is only slightly slurred when he says “So… I guess thank you? I mean, food is, I hadn’t actually eaten in, well, the fucking Hydra goons didn’t exactly leave me with my day planner, but it’s been a while. So thanks for that. You are… still on top of me. That’s, that’s something, that is a thing that is happening right now. But not moving, so, uh, should I take it that you, um… aren’t planning on… doing anything with, uh, with that? Because, because, really, it would be a good idea for you to not, my Dad is going to be pissed enough that I disappeared and he has missiles, really big, really… boomy missiles. And guns. So, uh, not, not ra-- not doing that is a totally rad idea.”
It ponders for a moment, trying to identify what the man is referring to. His core temperature seems to have returned acceptably close to baseline, so it is likely not an indication of hypothermic irrationality. The omega still smells anxious and good, so good now that he’s warming up and close by. Perhaps he wants the Asset to disengage? Inadvisable. Without clothes or enhancements, the risk of hypothermia returning is too high. The man has recovered sufficiently to start struggling, though, which could aggravate his healing shoulder. He must be dissuaded, if the Asset can remember how speech works. Its voice grumbles for a second, low and hoarse with disuse, before managing “Cold.”
The omega’s expression turns alarmed. “Are you, are you saying you only aren’t already -- already -- that because it’s cold? Because it doesn’t feel like the cold is slowing you down one bit in that department, buddy, you are, you are raring to go and right, right up against my thigh, oh my God, oh my God Tony don’t fucking taunt the monster alpha they threw you to, oh shit that was out loud, please don’t--” The Asset gently lays its metal palm over the omega’s mouth.
“Cold,” it tries again, removing its hand. “You. Stay.”
He starts speaking again, lightning-quick as ever. “Shit, I guess what they say about alphas going damn near feral in rut is true, if you’re still stuck at monosyllab -- wait. Wait, you -- you’re worried about me? The -- the cold. It’s really damn cold in here, and you’re -- you’re trying to keep me warm. This is your -- well, bed isn’t quite the word, but the only option to stay up off the concrete for either of us. Shit, you idiot, Tony. He’s in a goddamn freezing barren cage just like you. And my -- my shoulder. You fixed it, it stopped hurting when you grabbed it, and then you -- you were cleaning me off, not trying to drown me, huh. You fixed my shoulder, cleaned me up, fed me, and are keeping me warm. Hunh. Those protector instinct are probably screaming, aren’t they. Even with the, the fucking monster hard-on that's been poking at me since you first grabbed me. Is that why you’re uh, on me, but not… doing things?”
The Asset turns its attention briefly down to its body, considering. The thing between its legs is standing up again, as it has for longer and longer periods during this latest, most intense bout of malfunction, but that hadn’t been mission-relevant so it had ignored the sensation. The -- the word erection pops into its mind without apparent source, its meaning fairly obvious, and the Soldier assesses the situation. The erection has been persistent since before the guards came, and is indeed currently pressing against the omega’s thigh, who seems disturbed by this. But the Asset has no orders regarding this prisoner, certainly not to extract intelligence or obedience via sexual abuse. If anything, it is inclined to comfort the omega, that bizarre not-programming malfunction telling it to aid any omega in distress, care for them, protect them. Yes. This omega is correct, he needs its protection. It tries its voice again, and while still rusty, speaking is less of a struggle than last time. “Protect.”
The omega finally relaxes under it, breathing out in a soft sigh. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna, gonna sleep for a bit, okay. I don’t know the last time they let me sleep, and you’re, mmmhm, warm.” He turns his head to the side, trying to get comfortable under the bulk of the Soldier pinning him, and it risks shifting off to the right, curling around his uninjured side, its body still mostly covering the omega but weight borne more by the cases than the fragile young man. It offers its flesh forearm to support the omega’s head, and he snuggles into the Asset’s body in a way that’s almost… gratifying.
------
When it wakes several hours later, not much has changed. The omega still sleeps in its arms, color returned to a healthy light olive from its earlier hypothermic pallor, the cell is still nigh-lightless and cold, and the Asset still has the erection thing. His scent, though, is different, much stronger and untainted by his previous fear. He smells so, so good, and the Asset finds itself ducking low to bury its nose in his neck without intending to do so. The scent is even stronger there, and its hips rock forward accidentally, grinding against the man’s thigh. He wakes up, blinking faintly in a way that is definitely categorized as cute, and murmurs “Hello there alpha dick, I see you’re still up and at ‘em.” He wriggles a little bit, testing, and then frees his left arm from where it was pressed between their bodies, brushing against the thing in the process, which feels. It. It feels a lot. The Asset makes a low noise at the contact, unthinking, as its hips shift again.
The omega slides his freed hand down his stomach and past his own, thing, he also has a -- oh. Then the hand goes lower still, between his legs, and they part slightly. Another wave of the scent pours out, sweeter than what the Soldier found at his neck, and its head turns to focus on the movement entirely. “Shit, I’m wet. I don’t suppose you have a knotting vibrator stashed in that box of MREs, do you?” The Asset blinks for a second before rolling away from the omega and towards the currently-open case of MREs. It contains no additional materiel, but the omega should eat more, so the Soldier pushes one of the packets at him. The man looks down at it for a moment before continuing “Yeah, didn’t think so. Fuck, of all the times to have a fucking detox heat.” He accompanies this opinion with a twist of his wrist that makes the Asset want a much better look at whatever that hand is doing between the omega’s legs. After just a few tantalizing seconds, the omega pulls his hand away and says “Well, I guess there’s fuck-all for privacy here, but at least I can do this not on your… box bed thing.”
He follows that pronouncement with an attempt to rise, and the Soldier finds itself growling and pushing him gently back down without much thought. When the omega tenses up at the contact, it manages to grind out “Warm.”
The man eases back down slowly and says “Uh, I am, I am staying here, I guess. Okay. Uh, it is pretty warm, that’s true. Well, relatively, I mean, compared to the heat-death-of-the-universe thing the rest of this lightless little hole is doing. All temperature is relative, even if only to the molecularly predetermined freezing point of a random monoxide, so, ah, um. Shit. I gotta -- this is not a come-on, okay, but I gotta -- fucking heat, I gotta take the edge off. So don’t get weird. … Weirder.” Then his hand slides back to the place it was in before, twisting again, and the sweet smell gets stronger. The Asset stares, transfixed by the motion and scent and, oh, he’s making noises too, quiet little ‘ah’ noises, and what his hand is doing is also making noises, soft and wet.
It goes on a while, the omega’s movements speeding, but when his breathing accelerates further he reaches for his erection with his injured right arm, which is not acceptable. Further use of that limb will exacerbate the injury and prevent healing. The Asset reaches across the omega’s body to catch his wrist gently with the metal limb, pushing it back down to the cardboard. The man’s body arches up at that, pressing closely where it brushes the Asset, and he whines aloud. “Fuck, ‘m so close, but I can’t with just fingers, come on.” It pauses again, processing, compares ‘not a come-on’ and ‘come on’. It shifts again on the pallet, moving to kneel between the man’s spread legs, metal fingers keeping his injured arm still. Cautiously, it brushes the warm fingers of its flesh hand against the man’s erection, and he gasps and arches again. “Yes, yes, yes,” the omega chants, and that is sufficient, that is, is good, the malfunction says. Alphas help omegas this way when they want it, only when they want it, and this one does, c’mon, help him out, he’s hurting there. Malfunction or not, the omega hurting is not acceptable, so the Asset moves its hand again, petting a little more firmly. It watches the omega closely for signs of reaction, but they continue to conform to the positive signs before, the wet noises and ‘ah’s, only more, and so it keeps going, petting the places that get the best reaction. Before long there’s a surge in the noises and motion and the man bucks up, white fluid spurting out from his penis. The scent of the room is thicker than ever, but mixed with a heavy note of satisfaction and pleasure that makes it even more delicious.
After a moment, the omega smiles blindly up into the darkness, face pointed mostly in its direction, and says “Wow. That was… not what I was expecting. Shit. Wow. Um, I guess -- my name is Tony, by the way. Probably should introduce myself to anyone who’s helped me out with a heat. Oh, and hey, happy 1992, by the way. If I counted the days right, anyways. Not quite how I imagined ringing in the new year, but also I’m not dead in a ditch and hopefully neither is Dad, so, you know, gratitude. I hear that’s in this year. Um.” The man pulls his hands from between his legs and wipes a heat-smelling fluid from his fingers onto his thigh. The Asset keens at the scent, and the omega’s unseeing gaze tracks closer to its face. “Hey, y’know, you did me a, mmhm, a really nice solid there. I still don’t wanna go all the way ‘cause I’m pretty sure you don’t have a lifejacket around and I have exactly zero time for babies, but --”
He reaches out, brushing the Asset’s stomach, and starting to drag his hand lower. It shifts forward to be in easier reach of the questing fingers, and gasps when they close around its still-present erection. It groans at the pressure, the rhythmic tugging utterly unlike its own clumsy attempts on the om -- Tony. “Yeah, that’s nice, isn’t it. You’ve been -- really sweet, actually. All the alphas I’ve ever had apartments next to couldn’t seem to go two minutes without jerking it during a rut. And you did a nice job on me, least I can do it return the favor.” His grip stays steady, the traces of slick still on his fingers easing their slide, and it all feels -- too much. The low pressure in its belly and groin builds quickly, and before more than a moment has passed it imitates the omega’s previous jerky thrust, spilling much more fluid than Tony did while the base of its penis swells. “Not as good without a grip on your knot, but you seemed pretty insistent on the whole not-using-my-right-arm situation, so. Mmmhm, you smell much less like you want to fight and/or fuck something already, awesome.” The omega tugs a few more times until it hisses in overstimulation and then he lets go, arm going to rest by his side. As he does so, the leather cuff of the restraints he’d been in brushes against his leg, and he pauses.
He rubs his wrist directly against his thigh again, clearly intentionally, and then reaches across his body to rub at the cuff on his right wrist, or at least the portions not covered by the Asset’s grip. Maybe it should move, but. Omega. His fingers brush over its own, and the feeling is good, much more intense than such a minor touch should be. He investigates the cuff a little more with those slim, skilled fingers before saying “So I can’t see shit, but apparently I wasn’t hallucinating last night and your arm is made of metal. Which based on all the stuff you did with it and how precisely the fingers are working right now is incredibly cool and I really need to take you back to Boston with me so you can show me what you got when I can actually see it. I also felt the cuffs -- the padlocks are still there, but the chains linking them are broken, and the texture of the break clearly indicates metal stress as the cause, not a cutting implement, which is a lot of strength, like, Captain America levels of strength --”
And the Asset cuts him off with a sudden grunt, one that startles it as much as it does him. That name. That name means something. There are a lot of flashes about that name, coming too fast, too much, it can’t see -- “What,” it finds itself saying. “What is.”
Tony’s face goes skeptical, but he answers promptly “Captain America? Steve Rogers? The Star Spangled Man With A Plan? The only confirmed superhero ever? Well, my dad --” The omega is probably speaking, but the Asset hears only the rush of blood through its head. That name. That is. Its vision whites out entirely even in the dimness of the cell.
Hours, or seconds, or minutes pass when the rush subsides. “Steve.” Tony’s face is now worried, not skeptical.
“Yeah, dude. Steve. Rogers. My dad’s favorite person ever, and he’d be oh so happy to tell you all about him and all the ways in which I damn well don’t measure up. Hell, you’re apparently immune to cold given how comfy you seem in the ninth fucking level of the Inferno here and you seem to be exhibiting all kinds of fucking enhancements. He’ll probably fall over himself to take you on the next searching expedition.”
The sense of urgency, of something missing that had abated when the omega appeared, returns, this time without the edge of biological frustration. Searching. Yes. It needs to find something. Steve. The Steve thing will tell it about the flashes. But the Steve thing is not here, is lost. It reviews its knowledge of the thrice-aborted mission and the fragments of overheard conversations. This omega is the son of its target, a SHIELD affiliate, and the young man was skilled and clever enough to interfere with the mission repeatedly, to the point of Hydra risking such a high-profile kidnapping to end his intervention. The target is seeking Steve, and would welcome the Asset’s assistance. The Asset needs to find Steve and everything will make sense. “Yes,” it says.
“Yes what?” Tony replies, still stroking its metal hand.
“Yes. Steve. Find.”
The omega’s face does something complicate as he tilts his head in roughly the direction of the door. “Hate to break it to you, alpha, but you’re not going to find him in here.”
Accurate. It… was not technically ordered to remain in the cell, only to enter. The mission is outside, and so is Steve. It has waited long enough. It commands the omega “Stay” before rising, approaching the door. It inspects the steel, searching for flaws and weak spots. None are apparent, but sets its fingers into the seam of the door and attempts to pull anyway. The metal flexes, deforming slightly at the pressure, but that only serves to destroy its already tenuous handholds. Still, deformed metal indicates potential weakness. It steps back and throws a heavy punch to the flat space of door where the lock sits on the other side. It dents in slightly accompanied by a very loud clang. Tony calls out “Woah, woah, whatever you’re doing, quit it! They’re going to hear you and we have exactly zero percent of a plan!” It pauses, considering, and returns to the pallet to grasp the omega’s wrist. “Uh, okay, handholding, sure,” he mutters at the contact, but doesn’t pull away. The Asset grasps the small padlock keeping the cuff closed and pinches with its flesh hand, the metal first bending and then tearing as it steadily increases the pressure. It repeats the process with the three remaining cuffs and then wraps them securely around its metal knuckles. It it about to turn back to the door when Tony rises as well, reaching for the open case of rations. “If we’re about to get out of here, we’ll need supplies, and if it’s already down my throat I don’t have to carry it. You might want to eat too.” The Asset considers it briefly, but no. Out first. It returns to the door and layers another blow over the first, its leather wrapping making the blow soundless even as the door’s surface dents in further.
Within minutes, the metal is too warped to resist and its fist passes through and into the hallway, shearing off the locking mechanism as intended and letting faint light into the cell around the Asset’s wrist. With one more sharp tug, now possessing the leverage needed, the remains of the lock’s bar crack and the door swings open. Tony approaches it from behind, coming to look at the door, and it barks “Stay.”
The omega’s unimpressed expression is crystal clear in the light coming from the large hole in the door, and he responds “Like Hell I’m staying in this shithole while you wander off to look for fucking Captain America with Dad. Don’t know if you noticed, but the neighbors weren’t exactly friendly before they tossed me in with you.”
The Asset growls at the thought of anyone touching this omega, its omega. His bruises and cuts are even clearer in the plain light, visible ribs silently attesting to his hunger and mistreatment, and he looks painfully young. Tony flinches back, though, misinterpreting its offense. It takes a moment to grasp the door and peel off a long, thin piece roughly the size of a crowbar, and holds it out to the omega in offering. When the young man tentatively grasps it, the Asset tears off a much larger chunk for itself, perhaps five square feet, with some of the mechanism in roughly its center to serve as a handle. The chunk was shield-like enough to make a serviceable countermeasure for bullets, should its handlers attempt to impede its progress.
The omega gazes up at it, still slender and slight, naked and spattered with their fluids, but grasping the door fragment with a competent air and a gleam in his eye. The Asset feels its face do something odd, mouth pulling upwards as it steps into the hallway and replies “No. Stay behind me.”
