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SakurAlpha's Fic Rec of Pure how did you create this you amazing bean, Hydra/Tortured Peter Parker
Stats:
Published:
2021-03-31
Updated:
2021-04-06
Words:
9,390
Chapters:
4/10
Comments:
55
Kudos:
518
Bookmarks:
74
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6,926

saturday morning cocoa puffs & cartoons

Summary:

“What’s a Cocoa Puff?” SP-007 asks, before he realizes what he's saying. 

“What’s a...? They’re a chocolaty cereal.” 

“And you watch them with cartoons. And they soak into your milk, and then you slurp up the sweetness, and then you spill some on the couch but mom goes to clean it up...” 

“Um. Yes?” 

--

or, a quick hydra peter one-shot-turned-full-blown-story to add to the hydra peter parker tag.

Notes:

i can't believe i'm actually writing this hhhhh.

some background: this was supposed to be a one-shot for my identity reveal collection.

then i wrote the first 4,000 words from 1 a.m to 4 a.m (healthy sleep schedules amirite?) and then realized that. i wasn't writing a one-shot. because peter hadn't even arrived at avenger tower yet from the hydra base.

so!

if you read that collection, that's the next identity reveal and it will probably be posted before this is finished. will also not have to read this to understand that.

enjoy!!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: i.

Notes:

list of peter's handlers:

- handler petrov is his main handler
- handler oblonsky communicates more with the higher-ups
- handler nikitin is his training supervisor
- handler smirnoff gave him the Words
- handler ivanov is his mission coordiantor

tw for general fucked up hydra stuff, including death

edited 6/11/21

Chapter Text

The last time Peter Parker is Peter Parker is when he is five years old. He's skipping around his parents in a circle, singing with excitement; this is going to be his first time on a plane. If he's being honest, he's a little scared, but his father runs comforting fingers through his brown curls and assures him that everything will be alright, Petey. The last time Peter Parker is Peter Parker is when the flight attendant, Miss Carly, asks him for his name, cooing at his pudgy cheeks. 

He doesn't remember much from that day. He remembers Miss Carly’s bright red lips, stark white teeth, and navy blue scarf (when he comments on the beauty of the accessory, she awws and pats his head). Distantly, he remembers the smell of smoke and the look of pure, unmitigated fear in his mother’s eyes. Sometimes, if he strains his memory hard enough, he can remember shadows of men dressed in all black and wearing stony expressions behind tinted sunglasses, roughly pulling him away from death. (Sometimes, he wonders if they had saved him or condemned him.) 

In any case, from then on, he is SP-007. SP-007 is the finest weapon HYDRA has ever produced. Of course, SP-007 only knows this information from the late nights he spends eavesdropping on his handlers’ meetings with the Superiors. SP-007 had never and will never receive direct praise. It could mess with his programming. 

The days pass slowly, but they pass nonetheless. His earliest memories, after the plane, mainly consist of frigid too-small rooms, doctors with wrinkly faces and eyeglasses that would fall down their noses, tubes and wires running though him, and most of all, pain pain pain PAIN, followed by a raw throat from his screams. 

Since then, though, little has changed. He hasn’t always gone on missions, true, but ever since the Words, SP-007 has had to conserve his strength, only having enough to pull back the most important of memories. (Those are the plane memories, but admitting this to himself is too close to treason against HYDRA, so SP-007 never has.) 

So, there are large gaps in his memory. The plane, the experiments, and then the present is pretty much the timeline he's at. The present consists of tutoring, training, and missions. Out of the options, SP-007 prefers tutoring, as he always enjoys learning new things, even if most of what he learns is centered around either HYDRA or the belligerent Avengers. Besides that, he receives a basic education in science, and those lessons are always the best.  

That's another thing that SP-007 does remember - his first tutoring session with The Educator. Despite the fact that SP-007 has never learned The Educator’s name or anything about him, as he's forbidden from getting too close with the man, he has quickly become one of SP-007's favorite people. (Despite or because?) 

In the memory, SP-007 isn't sure how long it has been since he was separated from his parents - how long the experiments had lasted - but he is elated at the fact that they had ended, at least for now. Handler Petrov puts a strong, slimy, pale hand on SP-007's shoulder and pushes him into a metal room. It looks similar to his room, only there is an oak table in the center instead of a cage, and a broad-shouldered man sits behind it. 

The new superior interests SP-007 greatly. There is something about his eyes that seems different than those of all others he's encountered in this strange new place. Something close to warmth, something that can almost remind him of his parents. 

“SP-007,” Handler Petrov says, shoving the boy in question into a chair. “This is your tutor. You will address him as The Educator. Tutor, this is your new student, SP-007. We expect you to punish him when he answers a question incorrectly or shows any signs of insubordination. There have been reports that you are too soft, Tutor, but we won’t have you ruining the only spider test subject to survive. He should be adept at learning languages, specifically, from the mutation, which will be useful on international missions. We expect perfect fluency by the end of the year.” 

And with that, Handler Petrov leaves the room, leaving SP-007 with The Educator. 

“I’m your tutor,” the man says, looking at SP-007 with something akin to concern. “Listen, Pe – SP-007, I’m going to have to hurt you when you answer a question wrong, so you’ll be extra good, right?” 

The Educator seems desperate for SP-007 to agree, so he nodded his head timidly. 

-- 

That day had been productive, SP-007 recalls. He had learned the Cyrillic alphabet, as well as the basics of French. He had also been taught the word “alive” in German, Spanish, Chinese, French, and Russian, as well as the word “dead” in four more. 

SP-007 hadn't been sure which word represents him, and when he asked The Educator, the man had stammered out a meek reply and glanced at the wall behind him, which SP-007 had already figured out was a one-way mirror. Funny how his survival instincts had kicked in so quickly. (Funny how he wished they hadn’t kicked in at all.) 

-- 

Since then, SP-007 has grown far, far less naive. He is fluent in as many languages as he needs to be, can tell whether the glass is a really mirror at one glance (it usually is), and has learned never to ask questions (especially ones he doesn't want the answer to). 

SP-007 knows, deep down, that he is alive. He eats and sleeps (when he isn't recovering from the Words), bleeds and bruises. But SP-007 knows the word “weapon” in twenty-four languages, and each time he learns it, the meaning doesn't seem to change. “A thing designed or used for inflicting bodily harm or physical damage.”  

A thing

Every time he learns a new translation, SP-007 hopes, disgustingly childishly, that it will somehow change. It never does. 

The facts are these: 

  1. SP-007 is a weapon. 
  2. SP-007 must be alive. 
  3. HYDRA is always correct.
  4. Weapons are not live beings.

 

These four competing thoughts gnaw and gnaw at the back of SP-007's head. A chant, a doubt, a warning, a glitch, regardless of what it is, it's wrong. It's wrong, and the Words erase it, but it always comes back. 

It always comes back. 

-- 

SP-007 lies on the cold metal floor, straining his ears to listen to the conversation happening a few floors above his cell.  

“... Showing outstanding progress, shaping up to be the best weapon HYDRA has produced in years.” 

“So I’ve heard. Every time I check in, so I hear. ‘SP-007 killed forty men in a minute.’ ‘SP-007 defeated all thirty-one members of the Red Room program at once.’ ‘In a few years, SP-007 will best the Avengers.’ ‘SP-007 is surely the future of HYDRA.’” 

There is a loud crash, and by focusing on the nuances of the ugly sound, SP-007 deduces that the Superior has thrown a chair against the wall. 

“HYDRA is more than a mutant teenager, Oblonsky, or am I mistaken?” 

“N-No, sir, you are -” 

“All I hear, month after month, are the accomplishments of this asset. So tell me, then, why aren’t there more?” Silence. “I asked you a question.  Why aren’t there more ?” 

“W-W-Well,” comes the voice of SP-007's least favorite handler, Smirnoff. “SP-007 was the seventh to be inoculated with the spider bite, of a batch one hundred of all ages, health conditions, and genders, and he was the only one to survive.” 

“Because of Richard Parker, so you’ve told me,” the Superior mutters angrily. “The boy and the plane crash cost us a pretty penny, I’d sure hope that he’d at least survive. But, surely, if Parker’s research depends on his genetics,  surely  someone could figure out a way to use SP-007's DNA to amend the serum?” 

“We’ve certainly tried, sir -” 

“Then try harder, for Christ's sake! You’ve seen what we’re up against. The Avengers have been wiping out our bases like they’re nothing. Tens of millions of dollars gone down the drain.” The Superior lets out a heavy sigh. “HYDRA will never be gone, we know this, but it can be crushed down to a pulp. Do you want HYDRA to be a pulp?” No answer. “I asked you a question, Smirnoff. Do you want HYDRA to be a pulp?” 

“No, S-Sir -” 

And then, a noise SP-007 is all too familiar with. The deafening sound of a bullet leaving its chamber, flying through the air, making contact and piercing the soft flesh, cracking bone, and then a lifeless body crashing against its surroundings. 

Smirnoff had been shot by a Superior.  

Somehow, this tidbit of information amazes SP-007 more than any of the times his own name had been brought up in the conversation. As he mulls over the repercussions of what had just occurred, SP-007 hears soft footsteps, and quickly understands that they are coming to his cell. 

If only he could make himself fall asleep on command. It's a skill he's been working on ever since... well, even before the Words, at least, but he still hasn't had much luck. Maybe it's because of the glitch, the one that causes SP-007 to see the pale, bloody faces of his victims staring at him with milky-white eyes whenever he tries to drift off. 

He is adept, however, at faking sleep. This is an essential skill, as SP-007 is supposed to be asleep, and if they find him awake, they could connect the dots, and if they connect the dots, they’d find out that he had lied (committed treason against HYDRA, committed treason against HYDRA-), and then, not only would he no longer be able to hear the shrivel of hope that he receives every month during the meetings, but he would also be subjected to unimaginable pain.  

So, yeah, SP-007 has mastered the art of faking sleep. 

As the footsteps grow closer, he immediately shuts his eyes, spreads his body out on the cold ground, and begins regulating his breathing. After twenty-four seconds (he's counted, of course), SP-007 becomes aware of the presence of the three Superiors, as well as four of his handlers (Smirnoff is dead, dead, dead, dead-). 

“SP-007!” A commanding voice shouts crisply, a slight spray of spittle making its way from the speaker’s mouth, through the cell bars, and onto SP-007's upper lip. 

SP-007 quickly blinks his eyes open, glances around his cage as though he were reacclimating himself with his surroundings (and he doesn't miss the meaningful glance that Handler Petrov shoots to the Superiors at this), and finally sets his gaze upon the Superiors’ shoes. He kneels on the hard ground and bows his head, before saying: “Functioning at optimal capacities. How may I assist HYDRA?” 

The metallic smell of blood remains in the Superior’s musk, and SP-007 watches his slick, polished shoes as they come closer to his cage. Each step of the crisp heel sends a sharp clack sound that echoes in the small room, which blows shivers down SP-007's spine. The Superior’s nine steps take twenty-four seconds, and in those twenty-four seconds, SP-007 runs through a list of everything he knows about the Superiors: 

- They are as close to the heads of HYDRA as anyone would ever find. 

- There are three of them. 

- Superior One manages Assets, Superior Two manages Handlers, and Superior Three manages all of HYDRA as a whole. 

- When a Superior wants something, you comply. 

In short, SP-007 hardly knows anything of use about the Superiors. Once the twenty-four seconds are up, the Superior’s shoes pause in front of the cage and hesitate for three more seconds, before there is a slight cracking sound, and SP-007 soon finds himself face-to face with one of the Superiors’ torsos. 

This is as close as he has ever gotten to a real Superior. Every month, his five (four, now) handlers would have a meeting while SP-007 is supposed to be asleep and out of hearing range. Aside from that, he has learned the basic facts about them, which he has just summarized during the last twenty-four seconds. SP-007 is certainly not prepared to meet one, though. 

“Eyes up here, Asset,” the Superior says. SP-007 doesn't dare raise his gaze. Lesson Number Three: never make eye contact with a superior. But, then again, Lesson Number One: never disobey a superior. 

Cautiously, SP-007 lifts his eyes from the Superior’s abdomen, to his chest, to his neck, and, finally, to his face. 

As great at faking sleep as he was, SP-007 is even better at schooling his expression into neutrality, and his face remains blank as he meets Superior Three’s eyes. 

A reddish, jagged scar runs from the man's forehead, to his large, fleshy nose, and under his crooked jaw. But that isn't the most striking feature of the man’s face. No, it's the eyes that shock SP-007. Superior Three’s eyes are startlingly blue, the pinprick pupils the only tarnish in the brightness. His eyelids cover the upper half of his eyes, the skin sagging slightly, but it doesn't impact the affect that those eyes have, especially when you are staring right into them. 

SP-007 isn't foolish enough to say a word, and Superior Three didn’t speak, either. After a tense seventy-seven seconds, in which Superior Three simply bores his eyes into SP-007's and SP-007 leveled the gaze, Handler Nikitin lets out a throaty cough. 

“Sir, SP-007 has a mission coming up tomorrow and he will not be able to function optimally if -” 

Superior Three slowly turns away from SP-007 and begins walking to Handler Nikitin. “Am I not your superior, Nikitin?” 

“Of - Of course, sir, I was only -” 

Superior Three cuts off Handler Nikitin with a gesture of his hand, before sticking his hands in his pockets and pacing around the empty room. 

By then, SP-007's eyes have returned to the ground, though he longs to see his handlers’ expressions while they are the ones being handled.  

After Superior Three’s brief stroll,  SP-007 sees the man’s shoes walk over to the other Superiors’ shoes through his peripheral vision. He forces himself not to eavesdrop on their whispered conversation. Lesson Number Seven: knowing too much is dangerous, if they know you know. 

The conversation takes ninety-four seconds, and SP-007 understands that it has come to a close when Superior One, the Superior over Assets, specifically, begings clacking her heels on the metal floor, moving much faster than Superior Three had. Once she reaches the cage, she crouches down, immediately snapping her fingers and motioning with her finger for SP-007 to meet her gaze. He does so, of course. 

Superior One sticks her thin arm through a gap in the cage and clutches SP-007's chin in her manicured fingers. He refuses to break eye contact as she twists his head this way and that, inspecting for something – what, SP-007 doesn't know. 

She pulls her hand away, appearing satisfied, before unlocking the cage. SP-007 quickly stands up, returning his gaze to the floor and awaiting further instructions.  

Handler Petrov is the one to dose them out. “SP-007, the Superiors wish to see how the Words affect you. Handler Ivanov, as your mission coordinator, will take over for Handler Smirnoff, who is no longer with the cause.” 

SP-007 inwardly laughs. He can be loyal to HYDRA and find some of the things its members say ridiculous, can he not? ‘No longer with the cause,’ can mean two things: death or traitorous behavior, which tends to result in death (Often by SP-007, himself). SP-007 appreciates, though, that at least HYDRA openly admits their stance that abandoning HYDRA is a fate worse than death. Regardless of SP-007's thoughts of the matter, at least they don't dance around the topic. 

And then, the terror hits him like a ton of bricks. The Words. The Words.  SP-007 has no idea how many times they have been used on him, but each time feels more agonizing than the last. Rather than building up a tolerance to them, each time they are used they sink deeper and deeper into the mind, until they are a part of the skull itself.  

“The... the words...” SP-007 stutters. 

“He fears them?” Superior Two asks. “Have you not yet worked the fear out of the Asset?” 

“It’s - it’s a process, sir,” Handler Petrov explains. “The Words do cause quite a bit of pain... if he was human, his fear would be justified.” 

“But he is not human,” Superior One clarifies. “He is mutant scum.” 

SP-007 desperately wants to protest, but before he can even open his mouth and say something he would surely regret, the alarm at the top of the room begins blaring. The entire room becomes thick with pure rage and resentment, but all SP-007 could think is, they won’t have time for the Words, now.  

The Handlers immediately set into action. Handler Oblonsky yells instructions at Superior Three, Petrov at Two, and Nikitin at One.  

“SP-007!” Handler Ivanov orders, marching toward him. “The other handlers and I will be focusing on protecting and evacuating the Superiors. There is a chance we will not meet again. You are not ready, but you will fight the Avengers. If they have to kill you, let them. But you must stall while the Superiors leave. Am I understood?” 

SP-007 gives Handler Ivanov a sharp nod, before running to the security office. He is never allowed to procure his own weapons, but as there is no guard stationed at the booth, he figures that this is an extenuating circumstance, and immediately grabs two machine guns and a knife belt (which he secures around his waist, and then attaches six knives to). 

Using his enhanced senses, SP-007 quickly locates where the low buzzing sound of Iron Man (Tony Stark, The Merchant of Death)’s repulsors are coming from, and leaps from wall to wall to get there as quickly as possible. 

His goal, officially, in his mind, is to take out who he considers to be the strongest member of the team. And not, not at all, to meet the man who had invented a literal element. Nope. 

In seconds, SP-007 arrives at the Testing Room. Even looking at the bluish-gray door, with its rusting hinges that squeak when the air blows too hard, and the plaque with the word ‘experimentation’ printed in all-capital letters makes him queasy. 

But, taking a deep breath, SP-007 summons the courage to bust the door open, and he is met with Tony Stark, receded from his armor, examining the room for something. 

It would be easy. So easy. He could kill The Merchant of Death, right now. 

Slowly, carefully, SP-007's hand reaches under his shirt and grabs a knife. He silently creeps up to the man, who is completely, blissfully oblivious. 

His hand is on the knife and the knife is almost on the back and the knife in the back would be death and – oh, god, why is it so much easier to kill someone when his mind is gunk? 

SP-007's hand begins to tremble, and he feels tears of frustration well in his eyes. He is glitching. This shouldn’t be happening. Iron Man is right there and he can't do it. He can't. 

Before he can make any sort of decision, though, Tony Stark whirls around, and his eyebrows immediately shoot to his scalp when he lays eyes on SP-007. 

“Um,” the man says, cocky as ever. “This is a terrorist organization, not a daycare. Run along, kiddo.” 

Unfortunately for Iron Man, SP-007 is better at reading people than Tony Stark is at lying, and he can tell that the man is disconcerted by his presence. Good. He can feed into that. Handler Nikitin had told him to stall and give up his life if necessary, so that is what he will do. 

“Huh,” SP-007 finally responds, deciding to play along. “Must have gotten the wrong abandoned building in the wrong Russian ghost town. Whoops.” 

Tony Stark crosses his arms. “FRI, backup.” 

“Hey,” SP-007 chuckles, enjoying this only a tiny bit. “I’m just a lost kid, right? You really need backup to deal with me? I thought Iron Man was stronger, interesting.” 

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the jokes, kid. Why are you here?” Stark eyes the knife still clutched in SP-007's left hand, and the guns that had been tossed to the side upon SP-007's entrance. 

“Hail HYDRA and everything, right?” SP-007 answers, rolling his eyebrows. “I mean, I guess it gets a bit old after a while, but a fairy is born every time I say it, or something.” 

Stall, stall, stall, SP-007 repeats over and over in his head. Stall until the Superiors are safe. Hail HYDRA. If they have to kill you, let them.   

SP-007 tunes out Stark’s response and instead focuses on attempting to locate the familiar heartbeats of his handlers. None are in the building. They had escaped. 

SP-007 is alone.