Stucky One Shots

When the Winter comes.

You have to actively yell at me if you want more, like remind me....but not too much or I'll get annoyed and I'll delete the app.

[CHAPTER ONE
: 7ish pages]
For as long as it could remember, the only thing the Asset could feel was torture.

It's arm.

The electricity.

Gunshots.

Stab wounds.

The scars.

The Bruises.
Then it felt emotions. It didn't know what to do with them. It just repressed them.

Terror.

Rage.

Empty.

Pathetic.

Sadness.

It never appeared to react. The scientists question if it’s human sometimes. They never treated it as such, they told it that it was not. They told it that it is a thing, inhuman, and object.

The Asset questioned if it was human sometimes; murdering without compassion, tolerance. Being tortured, frozen for as long as it was not on a mission. The only two constants it had in its meaningless life, pain and being no recollection of anything. People were not to be treated like this; this is why it's an it. It was supposed to be the greatest soldier on the HYDRA's side. Sometime's the Asset inquired why everyone else has freedom, sovereignty of their own life.

“Freedom is a lie created by the American swine.” Answered Rumlow. “None of us have it. And you agreed to this before your first memory wipe.”

The Asset sighed and nodded. “I understand, sir.”

Once every six months, they let it out. ‘Maintenance’ they say. They monitor how it's doing. This was mainly if they hadn't needed it during those months. It had two hours to walk around as it pleased, stretch its legs. The other two hours were to give it a checkup. An hour for the first one, as he got out of the cryo-pod, another one as it got back in it. Right now, it had two hours to itself.

It forgot how good food tastes. It devoured all it could get its hands on. One of the scientists laughed at it. It realized that it wasn't really...being normal. It regulated its eating pattern every time after that. All it wanted was to be normal. Scratch that, it didn't have feelings, wants, desires. It was a weapon, an object, not a human. It had to keep telling itself this. Object, thing, not human.

It pushed the food away. It was done. It got up. There was so much to do, so little time.

Sometimes it would Express its thoughts.

“Sir, I don't think-” The sound of flesh slapping flesh echoed across the room.

“Machines don’t think. I think it's time for a wipe.” The man whose face was just a blur in its damaged memory purred out. Its keepers liked doing this to it, liked torturing it.

The asset hated this. It burned. It hates the pain. It doesn't want this. It doesn't remember why it would ever want this. It wouldn't want this. The Asset knows it would never. When the Asset gets sat in the chair, it grabs a man's neck. It will not go in. It doesn't want this. It wants freedom.