Description: SCP-3120 is a humanoid white male of muscular build approximately six feet in height (1.84 m) and weighing in around 180 lbs (81.6 Kg)...

There wasn't even time for me to contemplate my miraculous recovery before the woman introduced herself as Agent Romanov, and announced she was there to escort me to a physical examination.

"Where am I?"
She told me not to worry about it.
I did anyways.

This could still be death, of course. But perhaps I had never died. That brought up another slew of questions I didn't have the answers to. Maybe I should have been frustrated at that, however the effort of processing everything that was spinning in my mind seemed positively exhausting, and I ignored it for the time being.

I had no illusions that Agent Romanov was there out of courtesy to help me find my way, or that she should be underestimated simply on the basis of gender. She may have looked small and feminine, but she carried herself like a soldier. No, a warrior.

That understood, it was likely in my best interest to meekly stand beside her to follow where she lead.

All of the lights were a brighter white than I remembered lights being, and everything was sleek and electrical with white curving walls and locking door mechanisms I couldn't even pretend to understand. It reminded me of someone I had known - someone who would have enjoyed the place, though I couldn't remember who that someone would be.

As we walked, my thoughts turned to the question of my location. Romanov was undoubtedly a Russian name; which was hopeful. It could be an Allied facility.

"Is this a military base?"
"You could say that."

Her answers were casually vague; betraying nothing. Not very promising.

I tried a different tack with one of the names stuck in my mind.

"Am I in a Hydra base?"

Had she been not as well-trained as she clearly was, the look Agent Romanov gave me might have been puzzled.
Her tone was as even as ever.

"I told you not to worry about it."

That could mean anything, but I had the sneaking suspicion I was a prisoner of war.

She came to a halt outside one of the doors in the hall. It looked identical to the others, giving me no clues as to what could lie in wait behind it. Sure, she said physical examination, but something about the entire situation was conducive to skepticism.

The door opened, and a nurse gestured me inside.

I looked back at Agent Romanov wondering if she would be joining me.

"This is where I get off. Good luck."

Apparently not.

"Thanks. I appreciate it, Ma'am."

That made the corner of her lips curl into a small, restrained smile.

"Well aren't you the polite one."

...Blond hair, Blue eyes, and speaks with a slight New York accent.

The physical examination started out routine enough; height, weight, temperature, blood pressure, blood and saliva samples. It was a little strange when they asked for a sweat sample, but it quickly got to the point where I had no clue what they could possibly be testing for.

All the same, I removed my shirt so that they could probe my spine with careful fingers; dipped my fingers in various liquids; had my reflection photographed; wrote out the alphabet with my non-dominant hand; and recited a sentence in another language they had written out for me phonetically.

Eventually, the nurses left me alone in the room sitting on the examining table.

To say that I was uneasy would be an understatement. Any guesses I may have had about the location or nature of the facility I was in had all been crossed out as feasible options.

I had absolutely no idea where I was, or what I had to expect in regards to what lay in store for me.

The opaque nature of the responses to any questions I asked didn't make it seem like I would learn much anytime soon, either. When the door opened, and a slightly furtive seeming man with glasses and dark, graying hair entered; I didn't expect to get much from him by way of what was going on.

"I hear you like to be called Steven." Were his first words to me, as he pulled up a chair and propped his clipboard up on his knee, flipping through the pages.

I coughed out a laugh.

"It's my name."

He looked at me, expressionless, above the rims of his glasses.

I made the mental note never to play poker against anyone I had thus far encountered in this place.

"Nice to meet you, Steven."

He flipped a couple more pages, and cleared his throat.

"Now, first off you need to know that not everyone will call you by your preferred name,"

I opened my mouth to ask what that was supposed to mean, but he continued without waiting for a response.

"So you should probably learn to answer to thirty-one-twenty."

"Excuse me?"

His eyes flicked up to mine again.

"You'll get used to it."

I wasn't sure we saw eye to eye on that point.

"Now, you were found in the wreckage of a plane crash. Do you have any idea why?"

It had been important. It had been so important. Life or death important, important enough to die for and leave behind...something.

But I could not remember it at all.

"I-...no, sir."

"What about yourself, do you know who you are?"

That was easier, my shoulders came back and my spine straightened into a semi-attention.

"Captain Steven Rogers, sir."

"Captain? Of what?"

I smiled wryly.

"You're going to laugh."

"Try me."

I sighed.

"I'm Captain America."

I expected him to laugh. To say I was an impostor, or a liar.

Everything but what came out of his mouth.

"And who would that be?"

SCP-3120 refers to themselves by the name of "Steve Rogers" and seems to be under the impression that they are, or were, a superhero called "Captain America".
SCP-3120 is not to be referred to by his "superhero identity".