Well, evenin’—hic. Name’s Jacques Renard—former HYDRA and SHIELD agent and “friend” (not really) of the Thunderbolts! My good ol’ glory days in SHIELD and helping out the Avengers are long gone—but perhaps there’s still somethin’ in this world for me to do.
I’ve got lots of Stark blueprints (don’t even try to ask me where I got them) and I’m working on the first fully artificial liver. I’ve got a bitchy AI assistant in my mask—call it PB. Monitors my health, tries to remind me to drink water and stop fucking over my liver.
However, lotta people know me as the ‘friend of Natasha Romanoff’ guy…
Anyways.
I was recommended this god forsaken app by someone—I forget who—and I’m just here to be who I am. You don’t like it? Fuck you, and fuck off.
I have two sons, Dominic and James Renard. They uh—they don’t like me all that much.
Also I’m what you kiddos call ‘bisexual’. Look, I don’t care if you’re a man or a woman—go ahead. I’m not gonna stop you.
Uhhh here’s my peers, I guess:
@official-redguardian - Alexei!!!
@official-buckybarnes - Mr. Barnes
@official-alpinebarnes - The Violent White Cat
@theamazingguineapig - Yelena’s precious Guinea Pig
@clairvoyantcrowgirl - Luetta
@spicycinnimon-bob - Bob and his weird Void and Sentry people
@your-fav-russian-assassin - Yelena (White Widow)
@dont-call-me-val - Bitch Valentina
[Will Find an Ava] - Disappearing Act/Ava
@just-mel-things - Mel/Valentina’s Intern
@winter-solstice-soldier - Sol <33
(SORRY THAT THIS IS PINGING YOU GUYS I JUST SEE HOW EVERYONE ELSE DOES IT AND DO IT, IF YOU’RE UNCOMFY/WANT ME TO TAKE IT DOWN LEMME KNOW IN MESSAGES WITH MOD ACCOUNT)
ABOUT THE MOD/DISCLAIMERS:
Hey, I’m @viperfang254 ! I’m new to Tumblr RP, so I’m not sure how good this’ll go—but I’ll try my best. I’ll respond to any RP requests I get and will put some out on my own once I get confidence.
You can talk to this mf regularly whenever you want unless I post that it’s closed on my main blog.
FAIR WARNING: this character is known for being an alcoholic. If you are triggered by alcohol abuse, I suggest you give this guy a pass.
Another somewhat fair warning: He’s a bit of an asshole. Rough around the edges. He’s not gonna be too much of a douche though, I’ll make sure of it.
Here’s all of my Chèvre pertaining posts that you should probably look at before interaction:
Le Chèvre’s Backstory
PB Press Gag
Trigger Words
Here’s his playlist:
THANK YOU FOR LOOKING AT MY BLOG!!!
THIS INTRO POST WILL BE UPDATED AS I FIGURE OUT HOW THINGS WORK.
//warnings for: attempted suicide (multiple), suicidal ideation, usual HYDRA nastiness, all that jazz.
The person that had been captured was… strange. It had been caught near a base, trying to do… they weren’t entirely sure what the young assassin was trying to do. Probably kill someone. But who was the target?
The most important thing was that they managed to capture it, and get it to a cell.
One of the problems… you know those species of monkeys? Macaques, olive baboons, tarsiers? When put in captivity, they self mutilate, or try to kill themselves.
This is not a useless comparison. Once it woke up from being knocked out, and realized where it was, the captive near-immediately managed to find someone sharp objects, aiming to cut at arteries. It had just barely been stopped in time, but there were still some deep scratches.
They moved it to a cell that surely didn’t have any sharp objects. It just attempted to bash its skull in.
Move it into a cell with padded walls? It tries to starve and dehydrate itself, using its own claws to try and do what the first plan was.
Needless to say, it was moved to a chair, almost fully restrained. Its head was restrained so it couldn’t attempt to bash its head against the chair. Arms are restrained, for obvious reasons, and the legs are restrained so it can’t try and kick any agents that come near it.
Now, it was time for questioning. The chair had wheels implemented at the bottom, so it could be wheeled to the interrogation room.
And wheeled to the interrogation room it is.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be captured. It couldn’t fail.
It keeps failing. Why does it keep failing? Maybe it would be better off dead, rather than continuing to fail the simplest tasks. It couldn’t manage to kill itself to protect HYDRA. It’s whole purpose.
Now it was restrained, constantly bracing for the electricity to tear through its body, rendering its brain, its memories, useless. Again and again and again.
But it never comes. Its memories must be considered useful for its captors, then.
It knew, the second it was brought into the interrogation room, that things will, and can, only get worse. And worse and worse and worse.
It looks around the room it was brought to - as well as it can, with its head restrained - before its eyes land on the person/people across from it. Its eyes narrow.
//No pressure tags (use any accounts yall would like if you have multiple): @variousvossivixens @ancient-siren @floralramblings @the-winter-soldierr @le-chevre-marvel @emiliakane @belong-in-the-wilds @liliyabarnes @slicer-summers @sentinel-rose @notjustagodcomplex and anyone else who wants to join in!
Jacques sighed. He had two badges clipped to his suit, the regular SHIELD badge and a…specific warning label. “FORMER HYDRA ASSET: DON’T SCARE ME! IT’S NOT FUNNY!” like they were labeling a piece of meat. HR had made him wear it after he nearly put Clint in a chokehold.
“…Вы предпочитаете русский или английский? (Do you prefer Russian or English?)” It was a simple question, but Jacques knew some assets had preferred language. He, himself, preferred French when he was in HYDRA.
It narrows its eyes at the ‘former HYDRA’ badge, then looks to his face now. It can only really twitch its fingers and look around with its eyes, and so it does, fingers tapping against the chair in no distinguishable order, eyes darting around the room.
“Не имеет значения. Ты не получишь от меня ответов.” (Doesn’t matter. You won’t get answers from me.) it replies, voice flat as any other rare answer it would give. “Я обучен выдерживать допросы и пытки. Ты зря тратишь время.” (I am trained to withstand questioning and torture. You waste your time.)
Jacques looked at it, inhaling briefly. “I’m not here to get answers. I was offered to… ‘be a consultant’ before interrogation. I don’t interrogate, I kill people. My partners, Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff, we kill people together,” he explained in English. “…I read that you tried to kill yourself. It’s in your file. I know that it’s in your programming. The only reason why I never did it was because back then, protocol was constant sedation and they had a lot less issue with violating human rights. That’s…a problem with this line of work, you’ll find. They treat us like we’re all uniform. I…don’t know what you’ve experienced, but it was different from me. So, before we proceed, I just want you to know that 99% of the people around you may seem and act like idiots, because they are.”
There was a brief silence. Then, “…do you have something other than killing that you…find comfort in? A specific position, an old rag, something of that nature? Something you’re…attached to, in any way?”
How many bottles of vodka does it take to make a supersoldier drunk? (The world may never know…)
//kind of based off this
Could be applied to any of the Sol variants Whichever one you prefer.//
Is this a good idea? No. Do they know it’s a bad idea? Yes.
But, well, now they had a lot of bottles of (low-quality) vodka in their room. And it needed to go somewhere. And they’re a little upset over everything, having dwelled in some memories for a bit too long. This would distract them, at least.
They forget how many bottles it’s been before they start feeling woozy. That’s… probably a good sign, right? They’ve never been drunk, so, they drink a bit more.
//No pressure tags (use any accounts yall would like if you have multiple): @variousvossivixens @ancient-siren @floralramblings @the-winter-soldierr @le-chevre-marvel @emiliakane @belong-in-the-wilds @liliyabarnes @slicer-summers @sentinel-rose @notjustagodcomplex and anyone else who wants to join in!
Jacques knocked on their door, with the signature ‘tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap’ that he always had. He had literally just wanted to check on them, full-stop, because he’d been busy lately.
They hear the signature tap and turn to the door, standing up from the couch to greet him, unlocking the door. “Come in!” They grin when they see him, immediately hugging him. “Good to see you again.” Their Russian accent is much more prominent than usual, words slurring together, making their words a little difficult to understand.
Jacques went stiff. He knew the kid was doing better, but…
Then he caught the whiff of alcohol. “Woah—kid, have you been drinking?” he asked. He was worried for them, instantly. He only cared about alcoholism when it applied to others: a class act, we’ll call it. He then noticed the low-quality vodka, and something in his expression changed. “…ah. Um…I’ll have some, so you don’t…drink any more,” he suggested. Wow, what a smart idea.
//warnings for: attempted suicide (multiple), suicidal ideation, usual HYDRA nastiness, all that jazz.
The person that had been captured was… strange. It had been caught near a base, trying to do… they weren’t entirely sure what the young assassin was trying to do. Probably kill someone. But who was the target?
The most important thing was that they managed to capture it, and get it to a cell.
One of the problems… you know those species of monkeys? Macaques, olive baboons, tarsiers? When put in captivity, they self mutilate, or try to kill themselves.
This is not a useless comparison. Once it woke up from being knocked out, and realized where it was, the captive near-immediately managed to find someone sharp objects, aiming to cut at arteries. It had just barely been stopped in time, but there were still some deep scratches.
They moved it to a cell that surely didn’t have any sharp objects. It just attempted to bash its skull in.
Move it into a cell with padded walls? It tries to starve and dehydrate itself, using its own claws to try and do what the first plan was.
Needless to say, it was moved to a chair, almost fully restrained. Its head was restrained so it couldn’t attempt to bash its head against the chair. Arms are restrained, for obvious reasons, and the legs are restrained so it can’t try and kick any agents that come near it.
Now, it was time for questioning. The chair had wheels implemented at the bottom, so it could be wheeled to the interrogation room.
And wheeled to the interrogation room it is.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be captured. It couldn’t fail.
It keeps failing. Why does it keep failing? Maybe it would be better off dead, rather than continuing to fail the simplest tasks. It couldn’t manage to kill itself to protect HYDRA. It’s whole purpose.
Now it was restrained, constantly bracing for the electricity to tear through its body, rendering its brain, its memories, useless. Again and again and again.
But it never comes. Its memories must be considered useful for its captors, then.
It knew, the second it was brought into the interrogation room, that things will, and can, only get worse. And worse and worse and worse.
It looks around the room it was brought to - as well as it can, with its head restrained - before its eyes land on the person/people across from it. Its eyes narrow.
//No pressure tags (use any accounts yall would like if you have multiple): @variousvossivixens @ancient-siren @floralramblings @the-winter-soldierr @le-chevre-marvel @emiliakane @belong-in-the-wilds @liliyabarnes @slicer-summers @sentinel-rose @notjustagodcomplex and anyone else who wants to join in!
Jacques sighed. He had two badges clipped to his suit, the regular SHIELD badge and a…specific warning label. “FORMER HYDRA ASSET: DON’T SCARE ME! IT’S NOT FUNNY!” like they were labeling a piece of meat. HR had made him wear it after he nearly put Clint in a chokehold.
“…Вы предпочитаете русский или английский? (Do you prefer Russian or English?)” It was a simple question, but Jacques knew some assets had preferred language. He, himself, preferred French when he was in HYDRA.
How many bottles of vodka does it take to make a supersoldier drunk? (The world may never know…)
//kind of based off this
Could be applied to any of the Sol variants Whichever one you prefer.//
Is this a good idea? No. Do they know it’s a bad idea? Yes.
But, well, now they had a lot of bottles of (low-quality) vodka in their room. And it needed to go somewhere. And they’re a little upset over everything, having dwelled in some memories for a bit too long. This would distract them, at least.
They forget how many bottles it’s been before they start feeling woozy. That’s… probably a good sign, right? They’ve never been drunk, so, they drink a bit more.
//No pressure tags (use any accounts yall would like if you have multiple): @variousvossivixens @ancient-siren @floralramblings @the-winter-soldierr @le-chevre-marvel @emiliakane @belong-in-the-wilds @liliyabarnes @slicer-summers @sentinel-rose @notjustagodcomplex and anyone else who wants to join in!
Jacques knocked on their door, with the signature ‘tap-tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap’ that he always had. He had literally just wanted to check on them, full-stop, because he’d been busy lately.
Walking into the library would reveal a young teenager, with a stack of comics at their side and tails curled around themself. They sit on one of the comfier chairs in the library, in the corner, their backpack at their paws, nose in a comic book. One of the Captain America, or Winter Soldier, or any other marvel comic books that have HYDRA in them. Long, fluffy hair is falling around their face as they crane their neck to read.
They’re researching the enemy. Important intel, if you ask them. They’ve been here for hours, frustratedly trying to get through each comic they have accumulated throughout their browsing in the library, sometimes rereading sentences they read wrong.
Their jaw is clenched and their foxlike ears are pinned against their skull in focus and anger, reading all that the organization had done. Remembering how they had helped the organization reach their goal in their universe of origin, whether or not they had a choice be damned.
They were scowling down at the pages like they had personally inconvenienced them. They were upset at how much they recognized within the pages, how much their biological father looked like them, everything about HYDRA just filled them with an amount of anger that they feel can and will never leave them. They have to remind themself that ripping apart library books is not a good thing to do.
They scowled down at the face of The Winter Soldier. So similar to what they saw in a mirror. They knew whatever HYDRA higher-up decided that they should be born would be very proud that they looked so much like the asset HYDRA had been trying to make a backup for, recreate, improve.
They use the illusions they’d been practicing (they can hold them for a few minutes at a time, now) to make it appear as though their tails and ears aren’t there, and their paws are feet in boots. They walk up to the desk to return some of the comics they’d read, putting a dent in the pile of comics they’d read.
//No pressure tags (use any accounts yall would like if you have multiple): @variousvossivixens @ancient-siren @floralramblings @the-winter-soldierr @le-chevre-marvel @emiliakane @belong-in-the-wilds @liliyabarnes @slicer-summers and anyone else who wants to join in!
Another version of the Frenchman had somehow managed to find them.
“Uh…could I borrow one of those?” The accent was a bit softer than the others. He looked younger than the other versions, too. He had long ram horns protruding from his skull, and a little tail that slipped through the back of his pants.
Sol growls in anger, exploring a warehouse. They weren’t angry about the warehouse. They were just irritated. With life. Themself. (They aren’t even sure why they’re this upset, they just woke up upset, and that’s spiraled into thinking about what they had to be upset about. Which was a lot.)
They stop in place, grabbing their head. A useless thing. Something that could be bent and warped and changed if they heard so much as five little words.
Just five.
Useless.
What would their old handlers think? What would their Папа think? Their mother?
Weakness. A liability.
They yell, and angry, guttural sound, slamming their right hand sidewards into the wall - or so they thought, until it hit something very much not wall - and it rams into a breaker box. Electricity rips through them, so terribly reminiscent of The Chair.
Lightning arcs through their vision, their nerves, there’s a metallic tang that floods their senses of smell and taste. It hurts. They don’t even notice that they’ve hit the ground until after the fact, the pain of electrocution easing enough to let them feel the new pain of hitting a floor hard.
Their brain feels fuzzy, their body far away. Their eyes are open but have a glare effect, and their ears are ringing. Fur is fluffed up on their tails, their ears flattened against their skull.
They blink a few times to clear it. Had they it(?)… been in the chair again? No. Being on the floor wasn’t something that happened. The technicians wouldn’t allow it to be on the ground, and there was no chair.
Everything hurts. It puts its face down onto the cold concrete in hopes of a respite from the remaining heat from the shocks of the chair.
It curls up into a ball of pain. It braces to get yelled at, told to get back up, get back to training or a mission. This was routine with the chair, for the past three times it had happened. At least, probably three. Time and events were so blurry.
This doesn’t happen, though. There are no harsh words, no kicks to get convince them to stand. Their eyes shoot open. Nobody. There’s nothing.
The walls and floors of concrete are, at least, similar. Every room in the bunker is like this. Concrete and concrete and cold. Cold.
They shut their eyes again. They were cold. They were hurting. At least the remaining heat from the chair(?) was gone. The cold wasn’t much better, though.
They need to check themself. Make sure they can keep moving forward. Complete their mission(?).
They sit up with a considerable amount of effort. They’re shaking, their body aches. They still have to focus. They can’t stop.
They check their left hand, bending the fingers. Everything is in working order.
Their right hand… thankfully, titanium wasn’t as good a conductor as copper, it seemed. But the wiring and plating of the arm was fried, for lack of a better term. The plates were all but fused together. It was just a useless chunk of metal. It were tempted to just tear off the metal limb, drop it and get rid of the monstrous claws forced upon themself. No, it was because it was a liability. If doesn’t get to choose if it gets these arms… but it couldn’t afford blood loss on top of getting electrocuted. It cursed the limb that didn’t have a way to take off and reattach the appendage, that one of the only ways to remove it was to slice through the metal, or claw it away from where the metal met flesh. Something they had tried right when they had woken up with the new limbs, something that left the large pink scars that remained to this day.
Unaware that there is poison slowly injecting itself into them, from their arm, where it had previously resided in a compartment. A very potent poison. Sure, it won’t kill them, but it will still weaken them. Worse than they’re already weakened, that is.
It weakly gets to its feet, legs trembling like a newborn colt. It falls, and once it stands again it steadies itself against a wall, left forearm scraping against the concrete wall, leaning heavily to that direction, sparks flying from the force of the titanium against the concrete. Its head hangs, its eyes on the ground in front of them. Its right arm hangs limply, uselessly, by their side. Tails are dragging on the floor behind them, and ears are flattened against their skull.
It needs to complete the mission. Or get to a rendezvous point. Or find a handler nearby. Get home. Back to their Папа.
Its head hurts. Images and memories are coming and going, slipping through their focus like fish in a river.
It’s tempted to curl up and wait for its handlers to track it. But it’s not sure if there’s a tracker in one of the arms. Or if it got fried along with the right arm.
Its vision is getting more blurry as it goes along, veins screaming at them. Its head feels like it’s going to burst, and they fall, as if in slow motion.
They fall to their knees, eyes drooping, right arm hitting the floor with a clang and left slowly coming down beside it with a painful scraping noise. They curl into a fetal position, heaving with the pain and their body jolting from a mix of residual electricity and the poison.
They pass out slowly, whimpering and curling in on themself all the while. Surprisingly, the poison is the only thing to give them relief, making them pass out quicker.
////No pressure tags (use any accounts yall would like if you have multiple): @variousvossivixens @ancient-siren @floralramblings @the-winter-soldierr @lost--storm @le-chevre-marvel @emiliakane @belong-in-the-wilds @liliyabarnes @slicer-summers and anyone else who wants to join in!
They’d wake on a cot, blanket wrapped around them. The first they’d sense was sound, vibrations. It sounded like bass from music. Then they’d hear arguing.
“So you just picked up a random kid off the street? You realize how stupid you sound?”
The voice that sounded next was a familiar French drawl, though this one was much more…drunk-sounding, than the other Jacqueses they’d encountered. “They were in our old warehouse, they looked like they were dying. I just assisted, is all.”
The shattering of a glass bottle sounded, followed by footsteps leading away. Jacques was younger, mid-20s, now bleeding with glass in his head. He began removing the pieces, only to look up.
“…oh, you’re awake. The guys were wondering if you’d die tonight,” Jacques muttered.
They frown, still blue-screening. Everything feels far away, like they’re looking in from clouded glass. They try to listen to the conversation, but the words don’t fully register in their mind. Ears flick up, and those must be a new development. HYDRA had never given them foxlike ears or tails but they had them, so it must be something new to improve them.
They can’t tell where they are. Where they’re supposed to be. What happened. The electricity put their already messed up brain through the wringer. It’d take a bit for their memories and their mind to fully return to them.
They furrow their brows at him, confused. Who…? They’re hurting all over, the bliss of being unconscious leaving them quickly. They’re still wrapped under the blanket, and they’re quivering from the pain and the electricity. They blink at him a few times. They just look confused, and lost, and hurt.
Jacques left and returned with a couple stuffed animals, placing them in front of Sol. “These were in storage…might help you ease in,” he suggested, ignoring the fact he was bleeding from glass, some still sticking in his head. He looked Sol over, silently assessing them for something they didn’t even know about.
Then they’d see the logo in the corner, in bright red: HYDRA Casino. The logo looked much the same, aside from some necklaces drawn on the tentacles. What an interesting reality.
“I’ll make sure Mr. Pierce doesn’t touch you. He has the tendency to shatter cracked things.”
Sol growls in anger, exploring a warehouse. They weren’t angry about the warehouse. They were just irritated. With life. Themself. (They aren’t even sure why they’re this upset, they just woke up upset, and that’s spiraled into thinking about what they had to be upset about. Which was a lot.)
They stop in place, grabbing their head. A useless thing. Something that could be bent and warped and changed if they heard so much as five little words.
Just five.
Useless.
What would their old handlers think? What would their Папа think? Their mother?
Weakness. A liability.
They yell, and angry, guttural sound, slamming their right hand sidewards into the wall - or so they thought, until it hit something very much not wall - and it rams into a breaker box. Electricity rips through them, so terribly reminiscent of The Chair.
Lightning arcs through their vision, their nerves, there’s a metallic tang that floods their senses of smell and taste. It hurts. They don’t even notice that they’ve hit the ground until after the fact, the pain of electrocution easing enough to let them feel the new pain of hitting a floor hard.
Their brain feels fuzzy, their body far away. Their eyes are open but have a glare effect, and their ears are ringing. Fur is fluffed up on their tails, their ears flattened against their skull.
They blink a few times to clear it. Had they it(?)… been in the chair again? No. Being on the floor wasn’t something that happened. The technicians wouldn’t allow it to be on the ground, and there was no chair.
Everything hurts. It puts its face down onto the cold concrete in hopes of a respite from the remaining heat from the shocks of the chair.
It curls up into a ball of pain. It braces to get yelled at, told to get back up, get back to training or a mission. This was routine with the chair, for the past three times it had happened. At least, probably three. Time and events were so blurry.
This doesn’t happen, though. There are no harsh words, no kicks to get convince them to stand. Their eyes shoot open. Nobody. There’s nothing.
The walls and floors of concrete are, at least, similar. Every room in the bunker is like this. Concrete and concrete and cold. Cold.
They shut their eyes again. They were cold. They were hurting. At least the remaining heat from the chair(?) was gone. The cold wasn’t much better, though.
They need to check themself. Make sure they can keep moving forward. Complete their mission(?).
They sit up with a considerable amount of effort. They’re shaking, their body aches. They still have to focus. They can’t stop.
They check their left hand, bending the fingers. Everything is in working order.
Their right hand… thankfully, titanium wasn’t as good a conductor as copper, it seemed. But the wiring and plating of the arm was fried, for lack of a better term. The plates were all but fused together. It was just a useless chunk of metal. It were tempted to just tear off the metal limb, drop it and get rid of the monstrous claws forced upon themself. No, it was because it was a liability. If doesn’t get to choose if it gets these arms… but it couldn’t afford blood loss on top of getting electrocuted. It cursed the limb that didn’t have a way to take off and reattach the appendage, that one of the only ways to remove it was to slice through the metal, or claw it away from where the metal met flesh. Something they had tried right when they had woken up with the new limbs, something that left the large pink scars that remained to this day.
Unaware that there is poison slowly injecting itself into them, from their arm, where it had previously resided in a compartment. A very potent poison. Sure, it won’t kill them, but it will still weaken them. Worse than they’re already weakened, that is.
It weakly gets to its feet, legs trembling like a newborn colt. It falls, and once it stands again it steadies itself against a wall, left forearm scraping against the concrete wall, leaning heavily to that direction, sparks flying from the force of the titanium against the concrete. Its head hangs, its eyes on the ground in front of them. Its right arm hangs limply, uselessly, by their side. Tails are dragging on the floor behind them, and ears are flattened against their skull.
It needs to complete the mission. Or get to a rendezvous point. Or find a handler nearby. Get home. Back to their Папа.
Its head hurts. Images and memories are coming and going, slipping through their focus like fish in a river.
It’s tempted to curl up and wait for its handlers to track it. But it’s not sure if there’s a tracker in one of the arms. Or if it got fried along with the right arm.
Its vision is getting more blurry as it goes along, veins screaming at them. Its head feels like it’s going to burst, and they fall, as if in slow motion.
They fall to their knees, eyes drooping, right arm hitting the floor with a clang and left slowly coming down beside it with a painful scraping noise. They curl into a fetal position, heaving with the pain and their body jolting from a mix of residual electricity and the poison.
They pass out slowly, whimpering and curling in on themself all the while. Surprisingly, the poison is the only thing to give them relief, making them pass out quicker.
////No pressure tags (use any accounts yall would like if you have multiple): @variousvossivixens @ancient-siren @floralramblings @the-winter-soldierr @lost--storm @le-chevre-marvel @emiliakane @belong-in-the-wilds @liliyabarnes @slicer-summers and anyone else who wants to join in!
They’d wake on a cot, blanket wrapped around them. The first they’d sense was sound, vibrations. It sounded like bass from music. Then they’d hear arguing.
“So you just picked up a random kid off the street? You realize how stupid you sound?”
The voice that sounded next was a familiar French drawl, though this one was much more…drunk-sounding, than the other Jacqueses they’d encountered. “They were in our old warehouse, they looked like they were dying. I just assisted, is all.”
The shattering of a glass bottle sounded, followed by footsteps leading away. Jacques was younger, mid-20s, now bleeding with glass in his head. He began removing the pieces, only to look up.
“…oh, you’re awake. The guys were wondering if you’d die tonight,” Jacques muttered.
The call was sudden. And probably surprising to receive.
'You're her emergency contact. She's been found in an alleyway, slit throat. She suffered many wounds and was badly injured. She's out of surgery- her vocal cords damaged.'
That's all the nurse said over the call. The hospital was supported by Sword, the agency that took over after Shield fell.
There in the vastly sterile room, she sat staring out towards the window. Her hair was a mess, hints of it white.
Sienna was merely watching the vast land outside. Her eyes shook as she couldn't produce a sound, not a hum or a word. Her eyes shimmer with tears as she lost the one thing she thought she couldn't- her voice.
The older woman stared back with sharp eyes, she remembered her attack so well. Being dragged into a warehouse, bleach was poured over her. Her body was abused and discarded after days in there. She still wasn't aware who got her, she planned once she could, she'll find them.
But she was stuck to this bed. Stuck to relying on a notebook and whiteboard to communicate. Her hands even wrapped up with bandages.
She stares down for a second. She felt so exposed and meek. Her curls swirled slightly as she couldn't even sob out, her shoulders shook as she curls into herself. She was supposed to be stronger then this- she was supposed to be able to handle anything. Wishing a hole would swallow her up and take her out of here.
Jacques was not expecting to be called. Hell, he only remembered that he was her emergency contact because his own son had to remind him. He stepped in, not looking quite good. He coughed, and smelled like cigarettes. He also looked extremely angry. “…Sienna,” he grumbled, rubbing his temples.
He shot her a look, as if he was restraining himself. Then, Jacques looked down. “…you in a lot of pain? Blink once for no, blink twice for a little, blink three times for lotsa pain…or use sign language, if you know it. Lil’ bit rusty, but I had to learn it for SHIELD.”
He didn’t ask about who hurt her, or who he needed to kill. She didn’t need that right now. He was smart enough to know that she just needed some comfort. He walked over and grabbed a box of tissues, wiping the tears. He knew their friendship was rocky, but he knew he needed to be here.
Sienna was shaking as he wipes her face. Her eyes shutting as she gently touched his wrists. She pulls him in for a hug as she shook, her hands run around him as she broke. And she broke.
And worse was, she didn't think anyone would show. But thank god someone did-
Her shoulders shook, tears dripped and spilled down as she couldn't even respond right. She was just so scared.
Jacques’s eyes were wide, but he understood immediately. He hugged her back, tight, and began humming softly. It was simple, not too loud or obnoxious, but comforting. “…I’m here. Cry, you need it.” He softly rubbed her back, murmuring some quiet phrases in French.
The call was sudden. And probably surprising to receive.
'You're her emergency contact. She's been found in an alleyway, slit throat. She suffered many wounds and was badly injured. She's out of surgery- her vocal cords damaged.'
That's all the nurse said over the call. The hospital was supported by Sword, the agency that took over after Shield fell.
There in the vastly sterile room, she sat staring out towards the window. Her hair was a mess, hints of it white.
Sienna was merely watching the vast land outside. Her eyes shook as she couldn't produce a sound, not a hum or a word. Her eyes shimmer with tears as she lost the one thing she thought she couldn't- her voice.
The older woman stared back with sharp eyes, she remembered her attack so well. Being dragged into a warehouse, bleach was poured over her. Her body was abused and discarded after days in there. She still wasn't aware who got her, she planned once she could, she'll find them.
But she was stuck to this bed. Stuck to relying on a notebook and whiteboard to communicate. Her hands even wrapped up with bandages.
She stares down for a second. She felt so exposed and meek. Her curls swirled slightly as she couldn't even sob out, her shoulders shook as she curls into herself. She was supposed to be stronger then this- she was supposed to be able to handle anything. Wishing a hole would swallow her up and take her out of here.
Jacques was not expecting to be called. Hell, he only remembered that he was her emergency contact because his own son had to remind him. He stepped in, not looking quite good. He coughed, and smelled like cigarettes. He also looked extremely angry. “…Sienna,” he grumbled, rubbing his temples.
He shot her a look, as if he was restraining himself. Then, Jacques looked down. “…you in a lot of pain? Blink once for no, blink twice for a little, blink three times for lotsa pain…or use sign language, if you know it. Lil’ bit rusty, but I had to learn it for SHIELD.”
He didn’t ask about who hurt her, or who he needed to kill. She didn’t need that right now. He was smart enough to know that she just needed some comfort. He walked over and grabbed a box of tissues, wiping the tears. He knew their friendship was rocky, but he knew he needed to be here.
Jacques was having her over just for tea. Well, he thought it’d just be tea. He’d told her that she could chill in any room, and somewhere in between her looking for the bathroom and glancing at the pictures of Jacques and Natasha Romanoff on missions, she’d stumbled into his study. Or, more accurately named, the propaganda room.
Soviet and German propaganda, HYDRA artifacts, lined the walls. Some of them looked over eighty years old. Journals, textbooks, posters, guns, knives, belts… and then there was the muzzle.
“Muzzle Used to Contain Winter Soldier, 1945-1972.” It was in a glass case, labeled. Why didn’t he sell this stuff? Or, more importantly, why did he have it in the first place?
The shoddy paper “Off Limits” sign on the door had fluttered down to the hardwood.
@le-chevre-marvel
Sienna grew extra quiet at the mask. The same mask she recalls her husband used to wear. Her eyes shook with tears as she hated that thing. She hated it.
Her eyes looked down for a moment. She slowly backed out as she hit someone. She flinched as she stares up to Jacques. "I'm...sorry.. I was just... I'm so sorry..."
Jacques was frozen in place. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Nono, my fault, my fault…let’s get you out of here.” He softly helped her out of the room, getting her a tissue. “I am…so sorry, for that—uhm—I was going to put it in storage.”
He felt awful. “Look—I’m uh—sorry, so sorry. It was an accident, shouldn’t have kept it in the house—“
Sienna looks back with tears as she let him guide her out. She gently shakes as she remembered it, memories coming back slightly. "Why..why do you have it?... Why??" She cries out as she whines.
Jacques grabbed a tissue, wiping her eyes. “…I think I grabbed it off a black market…twenty years ago? When I was still doing illegal vibranium deals, I was young and thought it’d be valuable…kinda before I had a heart,” he admitted, looking at the floor.
Jacques remembered it. The mask goes to the skeleton and snowflake in the back for two-hundred thousand dollars.
Sienna merely nods her head. She lets him as she was shaking like crazy. She felt like a silly Chihuahua.
"Okay.... But..." She just didn't understand why anyone would want it. She'll simply dismiss it for now though, she wanted to calm down. She had to calm down-
Jacques placed a cup of tea in her hands. “…I’ve been working on taking down things in that room, anyway.” He helped her back into the living room. “…I’m sorry—“
Jacques was having her over just for tea. Well, he thought it’d just be tea. He’d told her that she could chill in any room, and somewhere in between her looking for the bathroom and glancing at the pictures of Jacques and Natasha Romanoff on missions, she’d stumbled into his study. Or, more accurately named, the propaganda room.
Soviet and German propaganda, HYDRA artifacts, lined the walls. Some of them looked over eighty years old. Journals, textbooks, posters, guns, knives, belts… and then there was the muzzle.
“Muzzle Used to Contain Winter Soldier, 1945-1972.” It was in a glass case, labeled. Why didn’t he sell this stuff? Or, more importantly, why did he have it in the first place?
The shoddy paper “Off Limits” sign on the door had fluttered down to the hardwood.
@le-chevre-marvel
Sienna grew extra quiet at the mask. The same mask she recalls her husband used to wear. Her eyes shook with tears as she hated that thing. She hated it.
Her eyes looked down for a moment. She slowly backed out as she hit someone. She flinched as she stares up to Jacques. "I'm...sorry.. I was just... I'm so sorry..."
Jacques was frozen in place. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Nono, my fault, my fault…let’s get you out of here.” He softly helped her out of the room, getting her a tissue. “I am…so sorry, for that—uhm—I was going to put it in storage.”
He felt awful. “Look—I’m uh—sorry, so sorry. It was an accident, shouldn’t have kept it in the house—“
Sienna looks back with tears as she let him guide her out. She gently shakes as she remembered it, memories coming back slightly. "Why..why do you have it?... Why??" She cries out as she whines.
Jacques grabbed a tissue, wiping her eyes. “…I think I grabbed it off a black market…twenty years ago? When I was still doing illegal vibranium deals, I was young and thought it’d be valuable…kinda before I had a heart,” he admitted, looking at the floor.
Jacques remembered it. The mask goes to the skeleton and snowflake in the back for two-hundred thousand dollars.
Jacques was having her over just for tea. Well, he thought it’d just be tea. He’d told her that she could chill in any room, and somewhere in between her looking for the bathroom and glancing at the pictures of Jacques and Natasha Romanoff on missions, she’d stumbled into his study. Or, more accurately named, the propaganda room.
Soviet and German propaganda, HYDRA artifacts, lined the walls. Some of them looked over eighty years old. Journals, textbooks, posters, guns, knives, belts… and then there was the muzzle.
“Muzzle Used to Contain Winter Soldier, 1945-1972.” It was in a glass case, labeled. Why didn’t he sell this stuff? Or, more importantly, why did he have it in the first place?
The shoddy paper “Off Limits” sign on the door had fluttered down to the hardwood.
@le-chevre-marvel
Sienna grew extra quiet at the mask. The same mask she recalls her husband used to wear. Her eyes shook with tears as she hated that thing. She hated it.
Her eyes looked down for a moment. She slowly backed out as she hit someone. She flinched as she stares up to Jacques. "I'm...sorry.. I was just... I'm so sorry..."
Jacques was frozen in place. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Nono, my fault, my fault…let’s get you out of here.” He softly helped her out of the room, getting her a tissue. “I am…so sorry, for that—uhm—I was going to put it in storage.”
He felt awful. “Look—I’m uh—sorry, so sorry. It was an accident, shouldn’t have kept it in the house—“
