Log: Meeting Nolan Vans. Project: I.A.N.
Summary: It's been several weeks since the assassination of Aleksander Lukin. As expected, there have been attacks on Kronas subsidiaries and the like as other crime lords try to take over pieces of his empire. A boy appears at Stark Tower, claiming to be a courier for Kronas, looking to trade information for leniency and protection. His name? Nolan Vans. While Tony and Phil allow him to stay in the tower until SHIELD can debrief him, under guard, Bucky comes across the boy and discovers just why he seems so familiar.
Characters: Nolan Vans (As played by ingloriouspurpose), Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier
Warnings: Asskickery. Mind Control. WTFery. Abuse of marvel concepts for our amusement.
Well that is a name at least. Whether or not the soldier believes it remains yet to be seen as once more there is little indication whether or not he does. "I'm an associate of Mister Stark's." The answer of 'who' given very generally and the question of if he was sent down there ignored since the answer is no, but he'll let Nolan come to his own conclusions on that. There is no shift of his stance or weight from foot to foot. James holds his ground firmly as he watches the youthful figure possessing the haunting ghost of familiarity. "So what undeniably heartwrenching story did you give him to land you here?" Nolan glances to the guard again, then back to James. His eyes squint a little, turning them into mere slits briefly, and then his expression relaxes. "I was a courier for Kronos. Someone killed...Mr. Lukin and now whoever it is is taking out other locations. I'd rather be alive than dead, so I'm here to trade information for protection. I can't thank Mr. Stark and Mr. Coulson enough for their generosity." Bet he /can't/. Courier. The word is analyzed and scrutinized as pale eyes stare the youth down, judging just how believable or, more likely, unbelievable that is. Though his information is off, technically it's he who killed Lukin and Elle taking out locations, but he's not about to correct the kid. People scrambling for power. "Yes, they have a bad habit of that." Finally, his intense regard falls to the wayside, immediately dropping his scrutiny to an inanimate piece of equipment. The pull up bar Nolan was formerly using. Closer to the young man, the soldier takes the slow steps forward and reaches up with his right hand to drape upon the bar, reclaiming loosely what was once Nolan's. "Has sheild debriefed you, yet?" Nolan does not have a physique to suggest that he is anything besides mortal. Though he did manage to fairly swiftly get his shit together in the chaotic crumbling of an empire and make his way to the United States and into Stark Tower. Not bad for a teen who can't legally join any army. "I gave Agent Coulson a couple of locations. He and Mr. Stark are handling it. Not through you though, I guess." Nolan observes James with a certain fascination, though he does his best not to posture in a challenging fashion. Then in Russian, ~what's your name?~ the switch is fluid and there is a slight emphasis on the last word. "Not currently." James notes dismissively as to explain why the two are not going through him. "They'll send an agent to do it right. Or the director. Depending on if they decide you're worth the trouble and not to deport you back to Russia." His demeanor factual and doesn't bother with kidgloves. Why should he? As the conversation continues, the soldier remains suspicious and on his guard, but does not toe toward outright aggressive--not that he isn't capable of it, certainly. Testing. The switch to Russian draws no reaction. None. which itself may be a tell in a manner of speaking as to his control. Not that the military bearing didn't tip him off. "Darius Jones." At least that's the name on his ID. No effort to slip into Russian or even accent wise, though he clearly understood the question. Nolan's fingers flex against the ends of the towel he holds. His lips draw into a frown. "They aren't going to deport me. We have all the locations they could ever want." He clenches his jaw again. "You know anything about it, Mr. Jones? The death of Mr. Lukin? The hunting down of people who worked for Kronas?" Nolan's adamant denial that they wont deport him isn't contested, though the man across from him just barely lifts one brow and shifts his weight to one side in a minute full-body shrug. As if saying 'we'll see'. "Some." Admitting to knowing a bit about what's happening. Just a bit. Like...you know, he was there, he pulled the trigger and he knows someone going through and methodically eradicating remains. You know. Some. "The news of Lukin's death spread quick, I imagine. I wouldn't be surprised if there were several people trying to fight for the scraps." Pausing a beat, the casual swipe of his gaze falling from Nolan a moment washes back like a cold shock of water to meet the young man's attention head on, grasping at it. "What kind of courier were you?" When James looks up abruptly there's that flash that he should /know/ this person, again, but when his young features come into focus it fades. Its that same frustrated feeling of seeing an actor in something where their age or weight is drastically different from where you 'know them' from. "Anything they wanted me to run. I didn't look in coolers and I didn't open envelopes. And what do you do for Mr. Stark? Cook?" The 'kid' grins crookedly. His eyes stay unblinking for a stretch, full of intelligence. Dark lashes framing those contrasting eyes buffer at the color and blur the lines a little more as he tries to latch onto what he lost as the fine lines and details of the boys youthful face came into focus once again. Squinting at him without much humor. Even when his lips, so capable of expression, stretch and turn into a bland smile, it does not soften the intensity of that gaze latched on Nolan. "I tell him when he's being played for an idiot." "Does that keep you busy? He seems like a man who can make his own decisions. You on the other hand, definitely a follower." Nolan flashes a quick and crooked grin and slides the towel off his neck and lets it dangle from one hand. That cool smile remains in place, unwavered at Nolan's observations one way or the other. "There's an old saying. 'Rats flee a sinking ship'. You hear Lukin is dead. You hear some of the locations are attacked. And you run...here of all places, offering information for your hide. That's an interesting choice." "I think its just smart. Everyone knows Iron Man doesn't care much for the government, so even if there were a death sentence for me, it wouldn't stop him from protecting me. I'm only a courier." Nolan swallows and has to look away from James, seemingly intimidated again though he wasn't just moments before.
"Did that really work on him?" That bland smile curves at the edges, James drops his hand from the pull up bar it was hanging on idly and a couple steps draw closer to Nolan. "Courier." The smile reaches his eyes this time, but that glint is not kind and carries chill with it. "That's right. I carry /messages/. I carry things of great importance that no one else can." When Winter gets closer, Nolan tenses up and his lips stay slightly parted. "Who killed..." A momentary squint of his eyes. "him?" "I have no doubt that you carry a very important message." Winter returns levelly, a low tension starting to coil in his throat, making it quieter and angle on something smokey and roughened as he slowly makes that slight advance on the younger man. Ignoring the question as to who killed Lukin, focused on the boy, not the corpse of the old man. Everyone keeps telling him to stop living in the past. Nolan keeps a watch on Winter's progress, towel down at his side, but he doesn't back up. "I just want to know who my enemies are. That's not such an unreasonable re/quest/, is it?" His eyes squint again, then relax in his youthful face. "We're the same, now. Two sell-outs." Nolan refuses to give an inch and Winter will not stop until he's just on the edge of comfortable personal proximity. Matching gaze for gaze, the two face off, relaxed but watchful. Waiting for the second shoe to drop and trigger one of them, possibly. "I think you have a pretty clear idea of who your enemies are." The stress on certain words noted and filed away, as with the sweeps and details of Nolan's features at the closer distance. Trying to solve that nagging puzzle piece. "I'm not selling anything. And not buying anything you're selling, either. So I'm going to ask you once, reasonably. What is your message, little boy. And /what/ are you carrying?" "Unfortunately," There is a slight dip of his chin and a press of his lips in a forced polite smile. "I can't deliver it here." Being that close, those smallish dark eyes...it takes away the youthful form that they are in. Those are eyes that will always haunt Bucky and James...and thrust command and terror over Winter. He stares back with a teenaged defiance though. "I'm feeling a little threatened, Mr. Jones." Pale eyes flick back and forth, searching Nolan's likewise unblinking regard--two animals of similarly dissimilar natures staring one another down. Something in Winter's stomach coiled and tensed, feeling his pulse skip and leap ahead briefly as he searched the boy's face. "I'm portraying it correctly, then." He breathes out in an ashen rumble. "I asked you once. Reasonably. You'd do well to remember that. You might think Stark will protect you from the government, but you should be asking yourself," The soldier leans in, within arm's reach. "Who's going to protect you from me?" Stare. Brief lift of the brows and a mirthless grin. "Are you going to torture a simple courier?" Its degrading, his tone, just like Winter's old master, and said with all the expectation of the result of shaming the listener. And then Nolan blinks a few times and he's just some punkass Russian teenager again. "I really hate you right now. I literally can't /describe/ how much." He lifts his free hand, gesturing a little bit. Resemblance slips when he's acting his age. Winter's chest tightens, a swift cold chill running through him as if his blood had suddenly turned to ice water. Ghosts. So much for them all being internal. The taunt and resulting shame from the pointed question played a back seat to the shivering horror of that ghost's existence in the flesh. The only real outward sign of this being a frozen, deadened posture, staring through Nolan. The boy speaks, dispelling the enchantment, and in answer, Winter's left hand threw itself forward to grasp for the courier's throat. Jaw too tight, it could barely move as the soldier's entire face suddenly morphed into a mask of painful fury. Plush lips peel back into tautly drawn lines, hissing acidically. Quietly. "/Explain yourself/." Pale eyes wild, vibrant pools of churning blue, pupils pinpointed with rage that borders on the sane. The threat of the guard is not forgotten. His right hand rests on his 'walkin' around every day' gun on his side, waiting for the first sounds of movement. There is a guard, sure. And one outside the door too. When Winter reaches out to grab for the kid, the one inside alerts the one outside, who communicates to lock down the floor so that...if things start exploding its just /this/ floor. And the one inside then starts heading towards the pair. "Lets just calm down now..." And 'Nolan' gets suddenly wide eyes, gurping some, though he also doesn't just piss himself either. With what breath he has, he wheezes out, "You did it, didn't you?" Huff. Wheeze. Staring at blue eyes with young eyes the same as Aleksander's. A free hand comes up to pry at Winter's metal fingers, which won't work well since the youth is simply human. "The Winter - huff - Soldier... favorite..."
"Step. Out." Winter orders the security guard without looking at him. Icy regard never tearing from Nolan, the hand wound around his throat struggles...torn between squeezing until he feels the youth's windpipe collapse in his palm and restraint. "Do not make me /repeat/ myself." The warning far more than the Winter Soldier at his purest would've ever given. "If you hurt that kid, its on you." The guard warns. I mean, its only been 2 days. Tony can't love or have drafted adoption papers just yet. The guard backs up, and then out. Nolan on the other hand is decidedly uncomfortable. It can't end this way! Arching up his dark brows, fluctuating between hate and a decent amount of fear, he pulls the kind of move than only youth seems to remember. He leans his lower body in towards Winter's and hoists his knee as sharply as he can to try to send Bucky Jr. and James Jr. crying home to papa. Guard gone, it leaves the two Russians (kinda) alone. The soldier made the first aggressive move, but the kid definitely ups the ante when he attempts to bury his knee right up between Winter's legs. The assassin knows that move damnit, but that doesn't mean it's ineffective. The assassin's knees buckle. Success! But he doesn't collapse on the spot, exhaling a tight breath spun up in his chest, face immediately flushing red. The only issue is now, he's /really/ pissed off as unyeilding fingers tighten reflexively around Nolan's throat and the overly strong arm throws the boy toward the nearest piece of work out equipment set up in response. Trying to buy himself some time to recompose. Nolan is tossed, by the neck, into the loving embrace of a bank of rowing machines. Cords and wheels go twang and whir and the baby assassin can only kinda roll with assault given the particular terrain. He's pretty dazed, face with a rope burn, and half tangled in the second-to-last machine in the row. He groans and curses in Russian. Not broken, and swiftly shifting into survival mode. Lost his towel too, dammit. Its in a lump on the floor at the other end of the rowers. A rough swallow and a second to lean over, a hand braced on his thigh, Winter harshly exhales a breath and uses the white hot shock of pain to fuel himself forward. That one's been a while. Memo to self to spar more and recondition all pain-responses. Later. For now, he has a Russian punkass spawn of satan to murder. Limping as he stalks after Nolan. "JARVIS, lock the gym door." Forget the floor, he has no idea if the AI will listen, but its an attempt as he slowly advances on Nolan again. ~You chose the hard way. I gave you a chance...what the hell are you?~ Nolan manages to get to his feet and he holds out his hand, palm facing Winter to try to stop him by gesture. ~I'm him, but I'm not! I'm a copy...created 15 years ago...~ And no doubt raised in the most loving fashion a psychopath can provide. Meaning...not at all. He doesn't seem to be looking for sympathy though, just...not-death. He holds his stomach with his other hand, panting through parted lips. Dark eyes flick from Winter's face to his arm and he seems quite ready to fight if he has to. Its just not going to be a very fair one. No. It wont be. Especially when he removes his sidearm from its holster. Giving a deep breath to steady himself, the assassin raises the weapon at the youth in pointed and rather unnecessary threat. He could end it in several ways, none quite so easily as impersonal as a bullet between the eyes though. or the throat. Finish the copy the same way he ended the original. ~Another Zola copy.~ spoke with less disdain than complete heartless apathy. ~Give me /one/ reason I shouldn't finish you off this second and burn your remains to ash.~ 'Nolan' stares down the gun with a twitchy sense of self-preservation. One reason. A dozen bubble up to his mind, two of which would probably get him shot before he finished the sentence.The others span the chart of nice-sounding bullshit to inconvenient truth, and his dark eyes, watching Winter with a conflict in his face, shift between strange admiration and intimidated nervousness. He holds his hands up and ducks his chin a little, his focused mind finally settling on an answer that doesn't snivel or lie, all things with a risk. "I've surrendered." In English. So that Stark's surveillance picks that up no problem. Though the ache of a good fight is certainly in his young limbs, but...gun. Man if he had a gun this would be fun...up until the deathy part. "Bullshit." Winter replies simply with accusation clear and hard in his tone. "You're exactly where you want to be. This isn't surrender, this is /planning/. Who the hell do you think you're talking to? I have limited patience when talking to brainfucked clones, Kid, so either you level with me or I'm going to buy Stark a bottle of whiskey in apology for making his staff pick pieces of your skull out of his treadmill." Nolan is starting to look a bit more concerned when that doesn't fly. Brains on the floor...yeah that doesn't sound like what he wants. Still holding his hands up, he tries to back up so that he has some room to move and isn't half trapped by just being among the rowing machines. "I'm here to find out who killed me. And how they did that. What is it that you want me to say? /I/ have never even met you before! Someone destroyed where I live, you asshole! What am I supposed to do...go become a nun? I don't have the skillset for that." "No, you have the skillset for being a deceptive little shit with the possibility of destroying countless lives." Nolan moves and so does Winter, step for step like mirror images in a very fucked up fun house. "There's something not-right about you. You know who I am. You aren't just a copy, for a second you /were/ him. Do you think I don't know the look of someone being screwed with?" Thanks Steve! "I can give you the comfort of giving you what you came here for. A demonstration." The look on Nolan's face shifts to something more mature and far more dangerous than the person Winter keeps calling 'kid'. ~Are you truly going to shoot an innocent young man for being a courier?~ He clucks his tongue once and those small eyes peer out from beneath a brow that hasn't been this smooth since Lukin's parents were taken away by war. Then softer again, English, "Noooot helping." And again in Russian, ~We're I-~ He hisses a bit and then says angrily, "Can you lower the weapon?! " And arches his brows in a flash as if this issue is Winter's fault. Watching with cold detachment rather than the white hot personalized fury of earlier in their encounter, Winter stared down the sight of his weapon pointed straight at the kid. "No." Not taking the time to split words, Winter answers Nolan's question, ignoring Lukin's as he watches keenly. The conflict between terrifying and crystal clear now that one was shaken and the other...well...who better to draw out the master than to present him with a favorite plaything and his murderer? "Frustrating to know you're just a vessel--a tool--isn't it, Nolan?" "Its Ian. I'm /Ian/. We're Ian. Whatever." He says it like it should mean something, clenches his jaw and cuts his eyes away, exhaling. "Yeah, I figured." Winter isn't the least bit shocked b y this revelation. How many other pet projects could Zola and Lukin have had that downloaded his brain in there like a damn zipdrive. Actually. Good question. "Are you the only one?" "What's the answer that doesn't get me shot? It was you, wasn't it? Creation killing the master? I thought it would take weeks to find you. " Lukin did have a pretty sick obsession with the infamous soldier. "You need to put down the gun." One of the first threats from the 'kid', and he manages to actually sound like he means it. "You need to answer my question," Winter's reply is unwavering but he lowers the barrel of his weapon to his side. Only marginally reducing the level of danger happening in the room at this point in time. Still refusing to acknowledge that he was the one who pulled the trigger that ended Aleksander Lukin. "How soft do I need to speak to not be picked up by Mr. Stark's surveillance?" Ian asks another question, the little punk still not answering. "We're the only one." Ian's chest moves in and out with controlled breathing. Lukin was never exactly the master assassin sort, smarter than he was physical, but his clone has had more specific training and evidences of it, like the breathing, Winter would recognize. It is also impossible that Lukin acted like Ian as a teenager. The personality is definitely a product of the age in which he has grown up...and at the same time...he IS Lukin, just like Hitler's clone would be Hitler. And now...someone's killed his...family? Sort of? Just like the original. "As far as I'm aware, JARVIS hears and sees all." Winter replies factually. "Unless you want to come over and whisper sweet nothings in my ear, and I have personal boundary issues when it comes to possessed clones." He could always zap JARVIS again, but that seems like a less than wise idea at this juncture. "A year ago." That's when the page they saw was dated. Disturbingly near his own little wake up call. Life is full of little coincidences. "What were you doing before then? Tell me courier and I might shoot you just on premise." It's not entirely certain how much of that is sarcasm and how much is serious. What can he say? The teenager's sass must be flicking Bucky's ear or something. "Doing your job." There is a sadistic pleasure in the words that comes from the We, as if they think that Winter will be offended or jealous. He literally hasn't lived enough years to be 'as good as' in the assassination department, but a couple more and he'll be beyond lethal with a whole bank of memories from someone else's life to reference. The rest of the replies are disturbingly normal, and one can almost hear the elderly disgust behind Ian's words. "Going to school." Nothing like going from art class to skipping lunch to go murder someone. Mixing and separating a double life for the recently-made-homeless little punk. "Watching Adult Swim and Star Trek. What the fuck do you /think/ I was doing?" Of all the assassins in the world, Winter is not in the least offended that there's another pubescent prick roaming around trying to do what he does. Did. Whatever. Just another hack. This one just happens to have the same exact DNA as his previous 'owner'. "Watch your mouth." Punk ass kid. "So this is some tired revenge scheme?" "Are you going to talk to me about tired revenge schemes?" Ian starts walking towards Winter, then, pretty casually all told. "I'd like to tell you something and I don't want Mr. Stark hearing what I have to say." "That's different." Winter narrows his eyes as Ian starts toward him, warning with a lift of his left hand. "You can stay right there. You got yourself stuck here, that was a miscalculation on your part. While I can appreciate not wanting Stark to hear and see everything you do in this circus of his, I'm not interested in letting you that close to me." Paranoid around the youth housing the mentality of the arguably most dynamically evil man he's ever known with a possessive obsession on him, he's disinclined to let him too close. Ian reaches up his hand to the back of his neck. He rubs it a little. "What exactly are you planning on doing now?" Seriousness overcomes his features and that darkly mocking squint makes his eye smaller than they already are, corners of his lips turning up by literally a millimeter, but the effect is pronounced. "Well, I have two choices." Winter notes mildly. Raising the weapon again and pointing it straight at Ian's mocking little smirk. "I could kill you. Rid the world of one more sociopath with far more minimized casualties than I'm sure you're capable of creating. All in all, it sounds like the smart thing to do." Ian clenches his jaw again. "And the other one?" He clips back at Winter in a hurry. He just looks...anxious now. Conflicted, but twitchy. He obviously doesn't like it that he didn't get to speak to him quietly. "The other one is that I give you enough rope to hang yourself with with these do-gooders. And if they fuck it up, I clean up their mess." The weapon still pointed at him, Winter doesn't seem to care about the discomfort from not speaking to him. "I generally don't like playing clean up. So if you become something I have to clean up, I'm not going to be the pleasant individual I was today. I will find you, and I will end you." Either way doesn't seem terribly pleasant. But one is more lawful. "What are you supposed to be doing with his consciousness? I presume the messenger boy has somewhere he needs to be." "Tell you the truth...I don't like either of those, since the latter is just me waiting around for someone to try to kill me. Us. Him. /WHATEVER/!" The last bit he seems to yell at himself, an adolescent reaction to a nagging extra person in his head. "So, you lead me out...and Mr. Stark, and possibly also Youtube, won't get to know your trigger."
The corners of Winter's mouth stretch and curl in the most unkind way possible, eyes narrowing at the young man across from him. "I knew you were sitting on that." Son of a bitch. "I don't have the authority to escort you to the bathroom much less out of this building." his jaw tightened, working those words through with a grind and glower, lowering his weapon, again. "I bet if you wave that thing around they'll let you." Ian's attention could not be more rapt, since literally he is playing a speed game between his lips and Winter's gun. "Lets go." "So I'm supposed to just walk you out the front door and let you wander out into the great blue world." Smirk. "You think they'll let that fly. That /I'll/ let that fly." The weapon lowered to his side, looking skeptically at Ian. Something among all the things that Winter has said has started to shake Ian a bit. "I just don't want to die..." His brows knit emotionally and he squints his eyes, then sets his face grimly. "You win...I can't do it." The soldier stares at the young man impassively. Pale eyes squinting at the genetic replicate of pure molten evil. Silence falling heavily in a thick blanket around the two 'sell outs'. His sidearm does not go back in his holster, but the soldier does turn away half way, walking at an angle toward the door, keeping Ian within his eyeline. "Behave yourself and you might not." Says something about the underlying Lukin that he's so spiteful he isn't willing to give the world the key to his precious soldier, even if that means he gets stuck here for a really /really/ long time. Ian's jaw clenches and his left hand figits. He might be a lefty, opposite of Aleksander. Not uncommon in clones/twins. "Don't look so sullen." Winter notes in a low, reluctant measure as he moves to the door. "I was locked in this room for a month before I was allowed to see the rest of the tower. You don't have it that bad." Yet. Then again, Stark had a habit of collecting sociopaths. He was proof. Yeah, Ian will have to use Elektra...throw HER out the window to take a breather. Ian still doesn't look happy. Nothing worse than a sulking 15-year-old assassin with a twisted old man lurking about in his head. "Guess its just another thing we have in common."
"Jarvis, the door, please." Winter pauses at the door as it opens, no sign whether or not it was locked to begin with and looks back toward Ian. "Don't do that, Kid. You don't want to have things in common with me. It wont earn you any friends, any peace or sympathy from me. I used to purposely break children and turn them into soldiers. I don't really mourn the loss of youth." Glancing out the door, into the hallway. "You still have roam, for now. Be smart about this if you want to stay breathing."