Chapter 1

I'm dripping wet, that's gonna draw attention. Part of my brain registers that fact, but I can't bring myself to care as I walk away from the man on the side of the river. He's still breathing, and he seems strong, so I think he'll be ok.

As I march slowly down the river, I listen to the helicopter coming closer. I hide instinctively, but they're not here for me, they're going to take him. I watch them fly away. I watch him getting away from me. Probably my only link to who I used to be.

Is that even true? I know I knew him. But my brain can't seem to place him. Everything feels… scrambled. Upside-down. Too much.

The sky's still too bright for me to go unnoticed in a city like this one. My instructions burn even brighter behind my eyelids: kill the man in the picture, go back to the base. But the man in the picture is still alive, and I'm the only one to blame. I try to feel guilty, but I just don't. I really don't. I try again when I decide I won't be going back, but it's a lost cause. Maybe I'm malfunctioning. Maybe I've become a liability and they'll have to do something about it. Maybe they'll have to take me out.

An abandoned building gives me a place to stay until the light dims and the city is safer. I slowly realize that I want to stay away. It's not just a decision, it's something I want. I don't remember wanting something before. Maybe saving the man from dying in the river, but that feels a lot more like something I couldn't avoid. Like something I had to do.

I sit in the far corner of a dark windowless room, and think about his words. They replay inside my head "You're my friend". Was I? Nothing about him was indicating a lie. Not his tone, not his eyes, not his gestures. Everything about him exuded sincerity. But it couldn't be true.

"I'm with you to the end of the line"

I've heard that before. I think I've said that before. Did I say it to him?

I sit still for what feels like hours, staring at the wall and allowing my mind to wander aimlessly through the events of the day. They told me the way that man calls himself: "Captain America". I try it out loud, but it doesn't ring any bells. They said I didn't need to know anything else. Just his pseudonym, his address and where he'd be. Why wouldn't they tell me his name?

I try to remember how he called me. The name that's supposed to be mine. My mind feels clouded, obscured. I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my face, and I rest my head on the wall behind me.

The room is cold. Too cold. But I welcome the shivering and the prickling sensation in my skin. I welcome the pain in my right shoulder, and the bruise I can feel forming in my hip. I welcome it all, letting it wash over me and overwhelm me. It makes me feel like I am alive.

I don't want to go back to the dullness. I can't. I try to breathe and the air gets caught in my throat. James. He said 'James'. I say it out loud too. It doesn't feel familiar either.

Everything's so messed up inside my head, I can't even tell what's true and what isn't. I feel a knot forming in my throat and I can't help the tears that fill my eyes. I slowly realize how scared I am. Absolutely terrified. They'd kill me if they'd find out I was having a private little breakdown. An assassin, the asset himself, crying his eyes out like a little bitch, hiding in a dark room.

It was shameful… But once I started, it was like years worth of crying came over me. I cried because I couldn't remember my name, I cried for what I lost and out of pure fear. I cried for him and his words, in case they were true and in case they were lies. I cried because I was crying and I wasn't supposed to. Because I was weak, and I'd get punished.

By the time I calm down and get on my feet, almost out of habit, my clothes feel like they froze from the cold, sticking to my skin, biting it. I wonder what happened to the man in the aircraft. He looked so broken… not when I was dragging him out of the water, but before. He looked so sure when he told me to finish my mission. Was he really willing to die, or did he trust that I wouldn't kill him? Does it matter?

I try to run my right hand across my face and my arm complains with a rush of pain. My shoulder is dislocated.

Without even thinking about it, I extend my arm in front of myself and pull by my wrist with my other hand, setting it straight with one quick move. The pain gets sharper, numbing my right side and creeping up my neck, and I suffocate a hiss. I'm not supposed to complain about stuff like this. I'm not allowed to complain.

I concentrate on my breathing for a couple of seconds, trying to ease it while I calculate the damage I took to the rest of my body. Too much. I can't do anything about the injuries in my back, my hip or my leg, but I think none of them is permanent. The pain in my arm is already slowly dissipating, and I'm able to think again.

"My name is James" I say out loud, and this time I know I've said it before. It feels formal, somewhat out of place, but familiar nonetheless. Maybe I misheard, and it was something similar. Maybe I'm just lying to myself, believing it just because I want to.

I briefly consider looking for a mirror, but the mere idea frizes me in place. I think I couldn't handle it right now. Too much. Everything's too much.

The need to follow my mission, to report my failure and present myself for disciplinary measures is almost unbearable. My feet keep trying to take me to them. I back up to my corner again and slide down to the floor, pressing my legs to my chest and hugging my own head. I don't want to go back.

The darkness takes over like I haven't slept in days.

When I wake up, I know the night has fallen. My first thought goes to the man in the river. The second one goes to my stomach, to the hollow pinch of discomfort I can feel in it. I'm hungry, I realize after a moment. I don't even know how long it's been since the last time I ate. I remember needles and pills, but I can't recall any food. I'm starving.

There's still a sharp knife hanging on the side of my leg, and I know I could use it to rob someone and get something to eat… hell, I could even do it without the knife, but I don't want to. Something about it makes me feel uneasy. I don't want to hurt anyone. I pull myself up reluctantly. I'll have to do something.

I end up walking around the neighborhood, doing my very best not to draw unwanted attention. I grab a few unattended things without anyone noticing. A coat off the back of a chair in a bar, the briefcase of someone waiting for the bus, a forgotten hat on a park bench. Nothing major, just what I need.

The jacket hardly fits, but it calms the shaking a bit and helps with the sensation that I'm about to freeze. Isn't it supposed to be hot? People aren't wearing too many clothes or big jackets, so it can't be that cold. It doesn't seem to be winter.

I walk in an alley and force the briefcase's lock to see what's inside. There's a few things, including some cash, and I sigh in relief. I take everything, distribute it in my pockets without even paying attention to what I'm taking, and I dispose of the empty briefcase in a dumpster nearby.

I choose the nearest food stand and order the same as the person standing before me in line.

I get a 'spicy hot dog with everything and a coke'. At least that's what the cook says when he gives it to me. I pay, say thank you and retreat to eat alone.

It tastes like heaven and I devour the entire thing in less than a minute. My stomach feels like I haven't eaten in years. I think it might be true. I gulp the sweet beveridge and breathe again. Everything's a little bit better now. Not as sharp, not as loud, but it's still too much. I need to get away from the crowd, so I buy another hot dog and head back to the abandoned building, eating as I walk.

This time I allow myself to roam around the place a bit more, making sure there's no one else with me. Five floors, no working elevators, two entrances on the ground floor, one exit on the top one, heading to the roof.

I mentally register all the possible escaping points as I walk up, floor by floor, just out of habit. There's a few mattresses in one of the larger rooms on the fifth floor, and needles on a corner, although it's pretty obvious that no one's been here in a long time. I take one of the worn blankets and throw it around my shoulders. It smells like shit, but the cold subsides a bit more, so it's worth it.

I go back down the stairs and settle on a small room with no furniture. The third floor gives me advantage if someone breaks into the building from both the ground floor and the roof. Straight ahead of me there's a window I can jump out of if they come from both sides, I can land on the roof of the small building right next to this one.

I sit on the floor again, guarding the door frame for a while. There's not much for me to do but think. Maybe I can figure out my link to Capitan America tomorrow. I can go to a library or something. Do some research.

I lay down with my head away from the door and resting on my arm. Everything aches. I feel like the nightmares begin even before I can truly fall asleep. I can't get the scientists out of my mind, their pale white coats walking around me babbling about stuff I don't understand, the doctors poking at me and cutting me open like I'm a fucking rag doll. It's too much. Why can't they leave me alone? Why can't I think about something else? Anything else.

"I'm with you to the end of the line" the thought erupts through all the others, pushing everything else aside. The look in his eyes when he said it accompanies it. His voice dripping sincerity, his eyes begging for me to listen. He looked at me like I was something -someone- other than… other than this. A knot forms in my throat as I hold on to that, letting it take me peacefully into unconsciousness.