CAPTAIN AMERICA DEAD, the headline says.
Really, it says "Captain America Believed Dead" but someone has taken ink and slashed through "Believed," pressing hard enough to leave a dent in the newspaper. He reads the article slowly—speaking Russian has become easier, but this is the first they've wanted him to read it—once aloud, then a second time silently. The details are sparse but they say there was a plane crash, and neither a plane nor a body was recovered.
The doctor watches him struggle through the text. "Well?"
He shakes his head. "It's wrong."
It took seeing the photograph in the paper for his mind to connect Steve to this Captain America, so before he'd simply sat, confused, as they insisted that Captain America is dead, that the Captain had thrown him from the train to save himself, and it is the Captain's fault his arm was lost and the Captain's fault he sustained the head injury that's stealing his memories and making him believe the Captain is alive and an ally.
"Captain America is dead and an enemy." They made him repeat it perhaps a thousand times and asked if he understood. When he nodded, they pressed the rifle back into his hands and ordered him to fire, taking the weapon and slamming the butt of it into his face when he refused, demanding to know why not.
He nodded to Steve again, ignoring the blood dripping from his nose and over his lips. "He says not to."
The beatings started after that. Now he is here, the newspaper tossed at him as they discuss options. Scan his brain and see what lights up when he thinks of the Captain, then shock that area, is one proposed theory. Another argues that he has to want to lose the memory or it'll keep sliding back in. Someone points out that they can't do another round of electroshock until after the cryo test, or he won't have the stamina to survive the freeze.
A very quiet part of him that only speaks up to refuse shooting someone thinks he shouldn't let them touch him; he should break free and run. He ignores it. He has nowhere to go. Besides, the doctors saved his life. He may not kill for them, but he owes them something.
Instead of running, he turns his attention back to the paper and he shakes his head at the title. Captain America? Is Steve a captain? He supposes that would explain why he can't say no to Steve, but Steve's always been more of a friend than a commanding officer. And Steve's alive.
"It's not wrong," the doctor insists. "He's dead. Failed."
If he could remember how to laugh, he might do it now. "It's stupid," he says, because Steve is right there, and the first kick the doctor aims at his stomach connects with the metal ribs and he hardly feels it, apologizing as the doctor doubles over in pain from the impact. The second kick winds him, and he is still struggling to regain his breath when they circle around him, injecting chemicals into his body and dragging him toward some sort of metal tank.
No explanation is given, just an order—"Don't struggle"—as the tank closes around him. Through the small window he can see Steve standing, watching, at the back of the room, and he reaches a hand toward him, just managing to tap the glass as he feels the sudden cold—danger, the metal limb sends to his brain, danger—and then the walls are frosting over and he is no longer awake.
When he comes to he is being dragged, body shivering and dripping with slush, and there is a crowd around him again, monitoring vitals and injecting more syringes. A light is shined in his eyes and once it's gone, the rifle is back into his hands and the target is back in front of him, and though he's half-blinded from the afterglow he knows the shot he makes is perfect. He knows this without pride or bravado; they have trained him to be their perfect soldier, and so he takes perfect shots.
They let him clean his body off with hot water, brush his hair and tell him how well he's done for them, what good he's doing for humanity. They hook him to the IV and though they won't let him sleep—too soon after cryo could have adverse effects, they say, as if he knows what cryo is—they do let him lay down.
The next day, they want to talk about Steve.
Do you remember what we told you about Captain America? they ask.
"Captain America is dead and an enemy."
Do you understand that Steve Rogers is Captain America?
He bites his lip, shakes his head. He understands, but—"Steve is alive."
He's not alive.
"But he is."
They don't worry about snapping bones when they beat him, aren't concerned with the long term effects of starving his body. They say he will heal rapidly; they will let him heal once they've cast this delusion from his mind. They hit and break and burn and slash, but Steve is there and he can't deny that.
Why does Captain Rogers tell you not to follow our orders? they ask.
"Because you're not a weapon or a murderer. You're a good man," Steve says, and he repeats it.
You've already killed for us.
He doesn't have an answer for that, so he stays silent.
We're saving the world, they say. Humanity is driving itself toward chaos and extinction. We are saving the world and we need you to do your part. You owe us for what we've given you.
He doesn't speak, frozen like a dog called by two masters. He hadn't realized he remembers dogs until just now.
Why do you listen to Captain Rogers?
The answer to that, he can provide and does so immediately, smiling with relief. "Because he's my friend."
Does he know your name?
The smile is gone. "I—"
Did he set your injuries? Replace the arm he made you lose? Give you food? Shelter? Keep you from harm while you've been here?
"I—he—no?"
Then what sort of friend is he?
"He's my friend," he repeats.
He tells you to resist us when he knows it will only cause you pain. He holds you back from helping humanity and he doesn't protect you from the punishments we must inflict when you disobey.
"He's my friend."
If he's your friend, they say, he can save you from this. Then they beat and cut at him until he can see bone.
After, when he is lying on the floor, eyes swollen half-shut, each breath a stab to the sternum, he can sense Steve over him. His smile is hesitant, shaking with every ounce of hope left in his body. There isn't much hope left, but Steve won't let him down. He can't.
"They can't break you," Steve tells him. "I knew they couldn't. You're—"
"What's my name?" he asks, words almost too soft for himself to pick up, but he knows Steve will hear him. He always does. He knows that his name has been taken from him, though he can't remember how, but he also knows they haven't touched Steve. He must still have the name.
Steve's smile falters, and when it resumes, it's sad. "I don't know."
He can feel the hope fading, and the dimmer it becomes, the deeper it slices. "Get me out of here," he pleads, voice ragged. His breathing quickens and that makes the stinging worse.
"I can't."
The sad smile is still there, and he hadn't known it was possible to look at Steve's smile and feel so empty. There is no rush of anger or betrayal, no heartbreak. He's too emptied for anything but a sigh of resignation. "You should leave."
"Wait," Steve pleads. "We'll find a way out together, we'll remember together, you're my best friend and I'm not—"
He rolls so that his back is to Steve, and even though the effort makes him scream out, he hardly feels it. "You're not my friend."
Steve is silent after that, and when he regains the strength to look around, Steve is gone.
They let his body heal fully before they strap him to the chair and shock him multiple times, one right after another. Immediately after they drag him to the cryo-tank—he is barely conscious or lucid, but he hears them say it must be now, or his mind will be able to overcome the latest damage—and this time when he stares at the window, he doesn't see Steve, doesn't remember to look for him. There is someone new there, someone he's never seen before and when he reaches out, his hand clinks against the glass and he realizes it's a reflection. He cannot recall ever seeing himself before and he stares curiously until the rush of cold puts him to sleep.
When he awakens, he stands on shaking feet, cold fluid dripping from him like afterbirth. He does not look around for anyone. He is a soldier, a weapon, and he has no need for comfort.