Murut opened his eyes to a blinding white light and felt his chest inflate with a ragged breath that felt like it was well overdue.

The lights. The feel of the cool hard metal beneath him. The distant beep of machinery. No! This was just like Hydra! Oh, why was he so stupid?

He had to escape now, while he might still have a chance - Murut scrambled blindly, unable to keep quiet the yelps of pain when his broken hands collided with unseen obstacles but he didn't stop.

People were screaming. Trying to hold him down. To stop him…

Through the blur of everything a hand wrapped around his wrist, strong and firm. Something was pressed into his bleeding palm. It was familiar. It was soothing. It was calling to him, thousands of voices pleading him to raise them from their weakness and send them off to war…

Pain spiked but Murut closed his fingers around the flute nonetheless, desperately clinging to the beacon of safety in this horridly foreign world, to the voices, however demanding, however taxing on his fragile conscious, that promised him he wasn't alone.

Everything went dark.

When Murut awoke, the light was still there. It was duller than before, but he still squinted against it, turning his head weakly to keep the light from glaring directly into his tired eyes.

"Hey, doc," a voice said. "Dim the lights, will you?"

A shadow crossed over everything, and Murut dared pry his eyes open past their original slit.

"Murut," a hand was hovering just over his shoulder, weary to touch him, but not backing away either. "Murut, can you hear me?"

Murut cut his eyes upward to the speaker - soft blue eyes peered down at him from a rather close distance, searching his face… was that hope?

"Murut, say something." The man ordered gently.

"What…" Murut found it hard to focus long on one spot; he let his gaze meander over the man's face, once in a while finding his eyes. "Who are you?" He decided to ask.

The soft face creased with a light frown. "What's the last thing you remember, Murut?"

Murut thought… what was the last thing he remembered? This man didn't seem like Hydra. And somehow Murut's instincts hadn't automatically categorized the man as an enemy. Why was that?

Murut hadn't met a non-enemy in seventeen years. What made this man different?

"Better… not be lyin'."

"I'm not."

Murut forced his eyes to lock with those intense blue ones above him. "You're Steve."

His mouth had moved, speaking with knowledge he hadn't known he possessed.

"Yes, I am Steve." The blue eyes smiled a little. "Do you remember who she is?"

Murut sat up and followed Steve's gaze as the tall man pointed across the room to the doorway, where a woman with short red locks leaned in the threshold, slowly eating a muffin and watching him with cold eyes.

The way a vulture looks down on dying predators.

Murut shook the thought away and willed his mind to name her sharp features.

"I… I don't know." He said.

"Good." The woman said stiffly, taking a bite of muffin that was more vicious than the last.

Murut looked back to Steve, who sighed. "I don't suppose you remember Bruce either?"

Murut slowly shook his head. "I assume I am supposed to?"

"You were pretty out of it when you woke up yesterday." Steve said. "It's okay. As long as you don't start forgetting more things you should be fine."

"Yesterday…" Murut looked down to the flute resting in his limp bandaged hands. "How long have I been unconscious?"

"Almost a week." Steve said. "For a while we thought you wouldn't wake up at all. Murut, any normal human would be dead with those injuries."

"Surly by now we both know I'm not a normal human." Murut cast Steve a look under a raised eyebrow, his head tired and not really wanting to settle back on his shoulders properly.

"Yeah, well," Steve cleared his throat. "We still don't know what you are instead."

Murut sat there for a moment, his head growing heavier, his body tingling with pain nulled by the IV in his arm, his hands icy and void of feeling other than numbing cold.

He found his head settled back on its pillow, not remembering lying back down.

People were talking around him, one voice Steve, the other a male voice he was sure he had heard before but could not place.

He had been completely defenseless for an entire week and woken up to no cuffs on his wrists, his wounds tended to with actual care, and his flute rested in his hands.

He didn't know who the hell these people were and why they bothered with him, but he supposed it was safe enough here to risk closing his eyes and once more drifting off into the darkness.

Not that he had much of a say in the matter anyhow.