Chapter Text
The observation room was shielded with reinforced glass, but somehow the stench of blood and ozone seeped into the room and seemed to cling to the buzzing equipment. Brock Rumlow stood with his arms crossed and looked down at the carnage below, keeping his expression neutral. A dozen guards were cautiously circling the Winter Soldier with their shock batons raised. The Winter Soldier was like a snarling beast, all bloodlust and rage as he struck another guard to the floor. The guard went down with a cut-off scream and three batons came down on the Soldier at the same time in an attempt to shield their fallen comrade. The scent of burnt flesh filled Brock's flaring nostrils and he clenched his jaw tight. The technician looked at the scene below with gleaming eyes as the Soldier snapped a baton in two and threw its owner into the wall across the room. The body landed with a dull thud and stilled.
"It's a thing of beauty, don't you agree, agent Rumlow?", he said with pride in his voice. "It's our most dangerous Asset, and just look at it. The sheer power! The endurance! Of course, it's also why it's so hard to control. It doesn't want to be controlled. But that's where you come in, no?" The glee in his voice was palpable. Brock worked his jaw, forcing himself to stay silent. Handler. That was his new role, and not just for any Asset. Oh no, they handed him the Winter Soldier, the very first of the Assets. He was a product of the Russians, Brock had heard. A ferocious beast that had killed over a dozen handlers in less than a year, if you could believe the stories. Looking down at the fight, it wasn't hard to believe. Despite the overwhelming numbers, the Soldier had killed three of the guards already, but the beating was taking its toll. The Soldier was still snarling, but the burn marks on his body were ever-growing and blood was running down his face. There were just too many of them. Still, he didn't give up.
Brock had no illusions of why they had brought him here to watch the Soldier being subdued. They wanted to scare him, show him how dangerous the Asset was that he was now in charge of. They wanted him to know just how badly he had fucked up. "Assert your dominance quickly", the sleazy technician had said with a smirk when they briefed him on his new role. They told him that the Soldier, like all of the Assets, was little more than a machine, a weapon to be wielded and, most importantly, controlled. Shells of men, the Assets didn't think, didn't feel. They only responded to pain, which was why they had shoved a stun baton in his hand, along with the dart gun for emergencies. Brock hated the baton already.
They wanted him to fear the destructive power that was the Winter Soldier, to make sure that he would do anything in his power to keep the Soldier contained, but looking down at the Soldier, now brought to his knees by a hard blow to the back of his knee but somehow still fighting, Brock only felt sympathy for the outnumbered Soldier. The fight wasn't fair. The Soldier had no chance of winning and he still fought with everything he had. How could they claim that the Assets didn't feel when Brock could see, plain as day, the rage and anger and desperation in the Soldier's eyes?
"I hope you are ready for your new position, handler Rumlow", the technician smirked. "It's a great honour to be appointed to the Winter Soldier. You must have really.. impressed someone to get a chance like this." Brock didn't bother answering the taunt. He knew exactly why he was here. Being appointed handler wasn't a goddamned promotion. It was a death sentence disguised as reassignment. None of the Assets had the same handler for very long and the Winter Soldier killed his handlers faster than anyone else. The last handler, Williams, had only lasted three weeks. They were still cleaning his blood off the walls. Everyone was expecting Brock to meet the same fate. He was a field agent, not a damned drill sergeant and he was definitely not qualified to be a handler.
But they didn't know Brock Rumlow very well if they believed that Brock would just surrender to his fate. Brock was a survivor. He may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but he had a knack for surviving and he intended to make it through this assignment as well. He just needed an angle, something to work with. He looked down at the scene below them. The guards had finally subdued the Soldier and were dragging the man towards the chair for yet another reset. The Soldier was still trying to resist, but his body was weak and bruised after the beating. The guards kept prodding him with the batons at the slightest sign of resistance to keep him weak and helpless. Brock swallowed down the bile threatening to rise. He forced himself to watch as they strapped the Soldier to the chair while the technician kept talking.
"The chair will reset this unfortunate malfunction. The Asset will be physically weakened and more prone to compliance immediately after, so it's advisable that you introduce yourself and assert your position as its handler as soon as possible, or it might not recognise your authority later. I can't stress enough how utterly dangerous that would be for your personal safety", the sleazy man smiled with an air of satisfaction. The technician didn't appear to be overly concerned about Brock's personal safety at all, despite his words. How many handlers had he given this.. pep talk to?
"How long will the reset take?", Brock finally asked as the screams filled the air along with the stench of ozone. Brock tried to block out the smell by breathing through his mouth. He couldn't show weakness in front of this worm disguised as a man. A machine, they called the Soldier. Machines didn't scream their lungs out when electricity coursed through them. Brock clenched his fists so hard that he drew blood from the palms of his hands where his nails dug in. The pain helped him stay silent, but his gut churned with nausea. The technician didn't notice the clipped tone of Brock's voice. "Oh, just a few more minutes", he assured Brock. "You will be able to enter any minute now." Brock watched as the Soldier slumped in the chair, utterly drained. The screaming had stopped, but Brock couldn't help but wonder if that meant that the pain had stopped, or if the man simply couldn't scream any more.
"What are the restrictions?", Brock asked without taking his eyes off the Soldier. Was he unconscious or just exhausted? Brock couldn't tell. "Restrictions?", the technician asked confused. "What am I allowed to do?", Brock clarified through clenched teeth. He needed to compose himself before he revealed just how repulsed he was with the whole situation. "Ah." The technician adjusted his glasses. "There are none. The Asset is yours to command in any and all ways that you desire. The only requirements are that you have to keep him from attacking Hydra personnel and keep him in good enough condition to be sent out on missions." Good enough condition. The sentence caused bile to rise in Brock's throat again, but he firmly pushed it down.
No restrictions. He could play this any way he chose. He had his angle. It would work. It had to.