He doesn't know who or where he is. He doesn't know why these men keep ordering him around and beating him and telling him soothing things in soft, poisonous voices. He knows the Chair, the thing they strap him into to fry him and take things away. He doesn't remember what they take away, or how much, but he knows how empty he feels without the memories they've stolen.

He's only got one left, and he means to keep it.

There's a blue-eyed, blond-haired man, and his lips are soft and he's so fragile, yet not, because he kisses roughly and survives. The man is bony and weighs little but he's so full of love and hope. He's important.

The memory makes him defy them again, however. When they come into his cage with their pristine white lab costs they daintily hold above the dirt and blood and shit and they say, "Will you come willingly, now?" he says no because that's what the man with his rushed kisses would want, he knows somehow. This memory of this man he needs to protect makes him resist.

So they take that away from him, too, and then he has nothing.