WHO:WinterTrouble WHERE: Loki's residence WHEN: Evening on October 9 WHAT: The Winter Soldier has questions; he hopes Loki has answers. WARNINGS: TBA STATUS: Complete
Questions were good. They told him questions and confusion meant it was working, although what exactly was working was something of a mystery to James Barnes/Bucky/The Asset. Was the programming slipping away completely, or was it being slowly reconfigured? If it was slipping away, would it be replaced later?
The incompetent asset—Clint, some part of his mind argues—had been unclear on that point. Agent Jefferson was mad at him, and justly so—recalling the conversation, he had been aggressive and entirely disrespectful. But the technician, Loki. Yes, he could answer the questions.
He had had no difficulty locating the technician, as he had had no difficulty locating the one who called herself Agent Orange. To the technician, however, he showed considerably more deference; rather than slinking in the back door, James Barnes/Bucky/The Asset knocked on the door of Loki the Technician and he waited for it to be answered.
The questions he intended to ask were many and varied. He shifted his weight a bit, anxiety slipping in around the edges of his mind. But why, why was he anxious, what did he have to fear? Pain, but that was such a facet of his life that it barely fazed him. Something tickled just out of his reach in the back of his mind, something with an important meaning he couldn’t quite grasp. That was happening more and more now, little memories fading in and big ideas sliding along the back of his mind in rapid cycles until he could reach out and grab them.
It made him uncomfortable, opened more questions, teased at corners of his mind he thought he had no right to pry into—but it’s your mind, Buck—and made the anxiety grow and grow and grow. And that tiny little voice in the back of his mind, the one that argued that the incompetent asset had a name, that he had a right to pry into whatever corner of his mind he saw fit—what was that? Whose voice was that?
The sight of the door opening was more of a relief than he wanted to examine, jarring him from the vicious cycle of thoughts that tugged harder and harder at the edges of his programming. “Agent Loki,” he said, because he assumed that the technician would prefer to be addressed formally. Although why that was an assumption at this point, he wouldn’t have been able to attest. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I have questions and I think you’re the only one who can answer them.” He hoped Loki could answer them; if not, he would have to resort to the incompetent asset—no, Clint—and that was not a comforting thought.