The first thing he was aware of was the cold.

For a long time, that was all he knew.

The cold was everywhere, in the dark and the silence, surrounding him and entering him and possessing him. His bones were made of ice, and his blood ran frozen through his veins.

Gradually, he became aware of sound. It hissed and hummed and whirred. The dark was growing lighter, mist swirling in front of him. It was still cold. Everything felt wet.

They must have moved him, because he was in the chair again, but he hadn't noticed. He was cold and shaking, but he wasn't…he wasn't tied down. That was new. He looked around the room. No one. That was new too.

This couldn't be right. Was he dreaming? He didn't think so. He didn't dream when he was frozen. And his shoulder hurt. His shoulder always hurt. He didn't think things were supposed to hurt in dreams.

Maybe it was a trap. He considered the empty room. He decided it didn't matter. It was a chance. He pushed himself up from the chair, arms shaking a little with the effort. He didn't really know how long it took for him to stop feeling weak after coming out of the ice. They always started hurting him before that happened.

Strength returned a little bit as he walked, adrenaline picking up the slack. He ran into a guard in the hall and swiftly took him down. Adrenaline was surging now. He picked up the pace. Rounding a corner, he came face to face with seven guards coming in his direction. No one paused before engaging.

There were too many of them, but he was holding his own. Despite the onslaught, he wasn't going down, and that scared him a little bit, but he wasn't sure why just now. Suddenly there was just one left, and his flesh and blood arm had him pinned against the wall, metal hand drawing back for a strike.

"Sputnik!" a voice yelled from behind him.

His arms dropped and he crashed down onto his hands and knees. The guard he'd been holding kicked him roughly in the stomach and he fell to the floor, breathing hard and shaking. Cold terror surged through him. He couldn't get up. He couldn't move. His vision was graying on the edges. What was happening?

Feet moved into his line of vision, and a familiar, reviled voice drifted down. "Wonderful," it breathed.

The lights went out completely.

When he woke up, he was back in the chair. He was tied down again, and he ached all over. His head was pounding. It screamed at him when he shook it to get his hair out of his eyes. He thought maybe his hair wasn't usually in his eyes, but there were more important things to worry about right now.

The little man was back. He knew that he hated him with every flesh and metal fiber of his being, but it took a minute to call up his name. Zola.

"What did you do?" he rasped. He'd meant it to sound angry, but it came out as more of a croak.

Zola turned to face him. His eyes were more lined than he thought he remembered. "That was a test," the scientist informed him. "You did very well."

"What?"

"Something as dangerous as you're going to be needs a failsafe of some kind," Zola said with a smirk. "The fact that it works in the middle of the action is fantastic. Better than I could have hoped for." He was beaming. "Of course, it will need to be reset now, and you'll have to go back into the ice before we can use it again, but still, that was wonderful. I am a patient man, but it is always gratifying to see years of work begin to come to fruition."

He did remember that Zola liked to talk a lot. He barely gave his irritation a passing thought, however. What Zola wouldn't shut up about was absolutely terrifying. He could just turn him off now?! What…How was that…"No," he whispered, his voice shaking as something small and frightened screamed inside his soul.

"Oh, yes," Zola replied. "Now, tell me," he went on, looking down at the tears slowly trickling from his eyes. "Is this an emotional response, or are you in pain? Does it hurt?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

"Where?" Zola asked, making a note on his clipboard.

"Everywhere," he whispered. Why was he answering him?

"Can you be more specific?" Zola pressed.

The answer was on the tip of his tongue, and his face twisted in a snarl as he stopped himself from replying. For some reason, Zola found that amusing. He found it alarming. What was happening to him?!

Zola returned his attention to his clipboard with a small smile, leaving him alone with his thoughts. They were slow in coming, and none of them were heading in good directions. He was supposed to be remembering something. A lot of things. Anything? There were faces, but they didn't have names. Words, names and voices floated by, not attaching to anything. A sound here. A smell there. All of it was him. All of it was intangible. Clouds of fog and flickering candles. Nothing that would stay.

Where had he gone?

The pain and the terror reached a crescendo and he turned and was sick over the side of the chair, tears streaming down his face as he vomited.

He heard Zola's click of disapproval, and realized he was talking to someone else. Another one of the scientists. They needed to do something about refining the failsafe. Couldn't have this happening every time. And when…When did he start understanding Russian? He didn't even realize it wasn't English until the conversation was almost over. What else were they putting into his head while he slept?

He threw up again. And somewhere under the pain and the fear he smiled a little bit. It sounded like he'd gotten it on Zola's shoes.

Days went by in a cloud of pain, semi-consciousness and an increasing feeling of emptiness. Memories flickered on the edge of his brain and were extinguished. Sometimes they resurfaced. Most of the time they didn't.

One of the faces he saw had a name. Steve. Steve was important. He could remember that, although he couldn't remember why. He really hoped Steve was going to find him soon. Steve always found him.

Zola was getting more insistent in the questions he asked him. Most of the time, he was able to keep from answering him. He couldn't remember why that was important anymore either, but he didn't like Zola. He knew that. And for now, that was enough to try to keep his mouth shut.

Zola, however, was finding it less amusing than he used to. And he had a friend, a big friend with big fists, and when he refused to answer Zola, the man with the fists would hit him until he did. After a while, he started answering faster. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't remember why, and it hurt so much.

It didn't make him hate Zola any less.

The words kept coming back too. There were ten of them. He understood them now, although why they kept saying them didn't really make sense. But they did, and bad things happened. Bad things always happened after the words. And the lights kept going out.

Bruised and bleeding and losing to the dark, he almost welcomed it when it was time to go back into the ice.