The Soldier’s head jerks up at the disembodied voice: feminine, as before, but there’s something different in the strange way the woman speaks and once “she” explains what she really is, he’s gone so rigid that he almost strangles Stark before he’s ready, his metal fingers tightening around his tortured neck. An AI. The keyword being “artificial”. Meaning he feasibly can’t take her - no, it - out, meaning that this thing could encompass the whole damn building and unlike Stark here, he can’t easily silence Friday through the usual lethal means. An AI means Friday can’t get tired, can’t slip up due to distractions or overconfidence or fear, can’t stumble over the trigger words. There could be copies of that damn thing for all he knows.
No wonder Tony Stark felt confident enough to pull this stunt.
Friday’s still speaking as the Winter Soldier loosens his grip a little on Stark, giving him a chance to suck in a desperate, rattling breath that still won’t feel like it’s anywhere near enough oxygen. His metal hand’s still curled around his throat but he’s careful now not to tighten further, because now he’s a bargaining chip and because keeping Stark alive might be the only thing stopping Friday from just rattling off the trigger words to save its master.
He is, after all, at least sure he can kill Stark before even Friday finishes getting the words out: he assumes the AI already came to that conclusion, too.
Darting a glance around for something, anything, he could use as a weapon, the Winter Soldier hauls Stark up by his neck as if he weighs nothing. In one motion he spins him around so that he’s got the other man’s back pressed against his chest and his left hand clamped around the other man’s throat tight enough that he can’t wriggle free, the edges of the titanium plating digging into his skin. His eyes fix on a drawer off to the side. Jerking it open, he pulls out an arm brace. It’s awkward to do it one-handed but he manages to get the straps over his neck and shoulder, to carefully tuck the red compliance book inside the cloth sling so it won’t come loose, and now he’s free to look for a weapon the next drawer over.
Opening it reveals the intimately familiar rattle of surgical stainless steel: forceps, clamps. Scalpels. The Asset helps himself to the largest one, hefting it, wishing he still had his combat knives and then for a second surprised at the unproductive thought swelling to the surface before he pushes it down. This’ll have to do for now.
Friday finishes speaking by then. Nothing’s changed, really. Except he has a name for his new handler’s face - Baron Zemo - and the Winter Soldier believes the AI is probably smart enough to lie whether or not it actually logged the trigger words. Stark’s foolish, in love with the sound of his own irritating voice; but he can’t be that stupid not to have safeguards.
“Friday, if you interfere, I’ll slit his throat,” the Winter Soldier rasps, his voice strained, his hand curled tight around the scalpel to stamp down on his trembling fingers. “Guide me to the closest exit. Now.”
The scalpel’s blade hovering near Stark’s neck, he edges toward the door with his new hostage pulled up against his chest, keeping his head resting against his shoulder so he can’t try to jerk up and smash the top of his skull against his chin. Pushing it open with his hip against the door knob, he drags Stark with him into a hallway - again, no windows - and so far he doesn’t hear the sound of security personnel running his way, setting up choke-points, the click of safeties coming off. It's just him and Stark's uneven breathing, the muscles of his back flexing against him.
no subject
No wonder Tony Stark felt confident enough to pull this stunt.
Friday’s still speaking as the Winter Soldier loosens his grip a little on Stark, giving him a chance to suck in a desperate, rattling breath that still won’t feel like it’s anywhere near enough oxygen. His metal hand’s still curled around his throat but he’s careful now not to tighten further, because now he’s a bargaining chip and because keeping Stark alive might be the only thing stopping Friday from just rattling off the trigger words to save its master.
He is, after all, at least sure he can kill Stark before even Friday finishes getting the words out: he assumes the AI already came to that conclusion, too.
Darting a glance around for something, anything, he could use as a weapon, the Winter Soldier hauls Stark up by his neck as if he weighs nothing. In one motion he spins him around so that he’s got the other man’s back pressed against his chest and his left hand clamped around the other man’s throat tight enough that he can’t wriggle free, the edges of the titanium plating digging into his skin. His eyes fix on a drawer off to the side. Jerking it open, he pulls out an arm brace. It’s awkward to do it one-handed but he manages to get the straps over his neck and shoulder, to carefully tuck the red compliance book inside the cloth sling so it won’t come loose, and now he’s free to look for a weapon the next drawer over.
Opening it reveals the intimately familiar rattle of surgical stainless steel: forceps, clamps. Scalpels. The Asset helps himself to the largest one, hefting it, wishing he still had his combat knives and then for a second surprised at the unproductive thought swelling to the surface before he pushes it down. This’ll have to do for now.
Friday finishes speaking by then. Nothing’s changed, really. Except he has a name for his new handler’s face - Baron Zemo - and the Winter Soldier believes the AI is probably smart enough to lie whether or not it actually logged the trigger words. Stark’s foolish, in love with the sound of his own irritating voice; but he can’t be that stupid not to have safeguards.
“Friday, if you interfere, I’ll slit his throat,” the Winter Soldier rasps, his voice strained, his hand curled tight around the scalpel to stamp down on his trembling fingers. “Guide me to the closest exit. Now.”
The scalpel’s blade hovering near Stark’s neck, he edges toward the door with his new hostage pulled up against his chest, keeping his head resting against his shoulder so he can’t try to jerk up and smash the top of his skull against his chin. Pushing it open with his hip against the door knob, he drags Stark with him into a hallway - again, no windows - and so far he doesn’t hear the sound of security personnel running his way, setting up choke-points, the click of safeties coming off. It's just him and Stark's uneven breathing, the muscles of his back flexing against him.