A man wearing a formal, bleached white lab coat came inside the room. Behind him followed another man with a cart.
I swallowed back a lump in my throat and croaked out, "Where am I? Who are you people?"
They ignored me — their faces not even giving a hint that they heard me. One came up to me and checked my vitals on the machine next to me, which I barely noticed until an hour ago, while the other busied himself with putting on some gloves.
"Please." I whispered feebly. "I so confused. This—this isn't me. It's—I'm—Why does my body look like Bucky Barnes? You know: the Winter Soldier?"
At that, they stilled. Then, the one in the lab coat muttered to the other, who seemed to follow his orders and walked to cart, picking up a syringe with unidentifiable liquid.
I inhaled sharply, and started struggling against the table when he started walking closer, holding up the syringe and flicking the glass container, "Wait, god no. I'm sorry! Please, what did I do wrong? I didn't know! Please, please give me another chance!"
I gasped when he inserted the needle in my arm. More painful than normal, I knew, because of my tense, spasming muscles.
A few seconds later, my words felt muffled to my ears and my mind quickly shut down. I struggled to stay awake while the lights flickered through my opening and closing eyelids.
"Mm nt Bcky Brnsssss."
I swear.