Chapter 14
I was dragged back to Room 37 early the next morning and strapped into the machine. Rogan took the opportunity to inject me with another dose of the strength-suppressing drug before the torture started again.
When it ended, Rogan read out the trigger words once more. I fought against their pull and managed to stay in my right mind once more. Rogan didn't seem overly concerned.
"How are you better than HYDRA?" I mumbled when I could finally form a coherent sentence.
Rogan considered my question. "I don't care about regimes or taking over the world," he said. "I don't want to sit at the top. I just want to put people there who will respect the position. But I'm prepared to get dirty along the way. The real question is, why aren't you?"
"I'm done killing innocent people," I replied.
Rogan shook his head, smiling wryly. "That's the trouble with this thing," he said, gesturing to the memory suppression machine. "Too much and you're a vegetable. Too little and you're as stubborn as a sixteen-year-old. I guess we just haven't found the right balance for you yet. Take him back to his cell," he added to the guards.
And so it went for the next three months.
I lost track of the time. Days and nights spent listening to the recorded trigger words blurred with mornings spent screaming in agony. It all became a hopeless jumble of misery. The trigger words invaded my sleep and dreams, and sometimes I would wake to find the reply on my lips.
I became too weak to challenge Rogan's actions anymore. I didn't try to fight and I didn't speak. As the memory suppression machine started to take effect once more, I began to forget why I kept silently repeating the name Steve throughout each session. I wasn't sure who Steve was anymore.
I wasn't even sure who I was anymore.
When they returned me to my cell, I would collapse on the cot and sob. I didn't know why they kept torturing me. Rogan wanted something, but I didn't know what it was. I just wanted the pain to end.
Finally, during a session in the machine, I couldn't take it anymore.
"Stop," I groaned in Russian. "Please."
Rogan turned off the machine and came over. "What is it, Soldier?"
My chest heaved against the restraints as I drew several shaky breaths, and there was a dampness in the corners of my eyes that had nothing to do with the sweat beaded on my skin.
"What … do you want?" I asked.
"I want you to submit," he said simply. Then he spoke ten short sentences I knew by heart, and this time I didn't fight as they pulled my consciousness under and replaced it with something both new and familiar.
"Soldat?"
I breathed in deeply, steadying myself, and nodded once. "Ya gotov otvechat'."
Ready to comply.
Rogan's mouth curved into a slow smile. "Excellent."
The recorded words were not playing when my handler returned me to my cell a short while later. Rogan had told me to get some rest, so I lay down on my cot and slept for a few hours before waking up to eat the midday meal that had been slid through a slot in my cell door.
I was still tired after that, so I sank back into a dreamless sleep that carried me through to the next morning.
My handler returned after breakfast and we left the cell together, but this time we didn't head to Room 37. Instead, my handler led me to a tiled shower room, where we were joined by a second soldier. They told me to sit on a folding chair in front of the mirror, so I did, watching as the new soldier cut my shoulder-length hair back to a tidier three inches on top with shorter sides and back.
When he'd finished – and after they'd shaved my beard back to even stubble – my handler gave me a bundle of clean clothes and toiletry supplies, and told me to wash.
I obeyed quickly, dressed, and returned to my handler, who was alone once more.
He nodded in satisfaction and led me to a large, well-lit room full of exercise equipment. "Take ten laps around the room, then do whatever you want with the gear for thirty minutes," he instructed. He leaned against the wall to watch as I moved to obey.
By the end of the run I was shaky and covered in sweat. I dropped onto a thin gray exercise mat and lay on my back until I'd caught my breath. Surely I could do better? I knew, somehow, that I was supposed to be stronger than this, but I didn't know where that certainty came from.
I rolled over and did a set of one-armed pushups, then filled the remaining time with various stretches and weightlifting. By the end of the half hour I was exhausted.
My handler returned me to my cell, where Rogan waited with a smile and the usual syringe of clear liquid. I didn't know what it was, but I didn't feel the need to ask either. I simply held out my arm when requested to and allowed Rogan to administer the injection.
After he left, I returned to my cot and slept until my handler woke me for another workout session in the afternoon.
The next fourteen days passed in that manner, and I noted two changes over that time: The amount of liquid in the syringe decreased until I no longer received it at all, and my strength increased slowly until I was faster and stronger than any of the men I sparred with.
At the end of the fortnight, Rogan came and watched as I completed my training exercises. He stood silently by the doorway as I went through the assigned challenges, and he smiled when I completed them all without fault.
"Well done, Soldier," he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You've done very well."
It felt good to be fully functional again – something I knew to be true without knowing how or why I was supposed to be that way. I was ready for more than exercise and basic combat and weapons practice.
Apparently Rogan thought so too. "I have a mission for you, Soldier," he said. "If you're ready."
"I am." I spoke in Russian, as I was expected to – when I was expected to speak at all.
"Do you remember Natasha Romanoff?"
"No."
"She's a highly-trained enemy assassin. She's in Russian now, not far from here."
"Do you want me to kill her?"
Rogan smiled. "No. I just want you to bring her back here tomorrow. Everything has been arranged already. There's just one last thing to take care of."
He called in a technician with a set of electrical tools and got me to sit down on a bench while the man worked on the circuitry in my bionic arm.
After a couple of minutes the technician closed the arm's metal panel and stepped back. "Finished."
I raised the arm and splayed out my fingers, then made a fist. The limb worked perfectly. I looked up at Rogan. "Thank you."
He smiled. "I trust you, Soldier."
