Steve had no idea how many days it had been, and even when he knew himself he had real trouble picturing what might have been before. There had to have been a before; men didn't just suddenly discover themselves full-grown and with the kind of skills he had--skills that had come as a surprise to him, when he'd woken up once before they managed to put him in the chair. He was sure he'd killed at least three of them before a dart had sunk into the meat of his right forearm as he tried to shield his face.
In the moments between waking and when the chair enclosed him, he ran over his memories frantically, trying to fix them in his mind, but he knew he was failing; he could no longer remember the red-headed woman's name, nor why the image of a very old lady lying in her bed made him want to cry. The only names that came back to him reliably anymore were his own and Bucky's, and Bucky's face wavered erratically between clean-shaven laughter and a scowl with hair falling in his eyes.
Steve's own beard wasn't growing much; he didn't remember ever shaving, so they must have been doing it for him while he was unconscious. It meant he didn't have even that rudimentary clock to keep track of his days.
The woman, who he sometimes remembered was called Doctor Risman, always asked him if he knew his name, if he knew where he was from, and he began to anticipate the questions eagerly because they were usually what tripped his cascades of memory--painful as they were, and only moreso each time, they brought him back to himself as much as he could get.
He had the feeling the periods of blankness, when he just accepted the world, were getting longer, and it terrified him.
*
"Can you tell me your name?" the woman asked.
He stared at her, trying to fight down the feeling that disappointing her would have unpleasant consequences. But nothing came to him, and finally he had to shake his head. It was a relief when she smiled, though something in him was...disappointed too. "Take all the time you need," she told him.
"I don't know," he said.
"You're Nomad," she said.
He turned that over in his head for a moment, wondering why it didn't seem to fit. But he supposed he couldn't complain too much if she gave him a name; it wasn't like he had another to counter with.
"Nomad. All right."
"Good. Now say: hail Hydra."
"Hail Hydra," he repeated obediently.
*
He was alone in a room with a man. The man was handcuffed to a bolt in the floor and had a bag over his head, and from the sound of it he was crying. Through a gag, most likely; he hadn't said anything coherent.
Nomad loaded the pistol with the one round he'd been provided. When he was finished, he looked down at the shackled man and said, "Why am I doing this?"
Doctor Risman's voice didn't come from anywhere in particular. "He's a murderer. This is justice."
"I'm pretty sure we don't execute people by firing squad anymore," Nomad said. "And when we did it wasn't like this."
"Kill him," the doctor said sharply, "or there will be consequences."
Nomad looked into the upper corner of the room thoughtfully. "I don't like bullies," he said, and shot out the camera.
Then he sat on the floor and waited for the knockout gas.
*
He woke with the peculiar lassitude in his limbs that meant he'd been in the chair. His hands were cuffed behind him. That was as far as he got before a booted foot slammed into his ribs. Nomad grunted and curled around the impact, but even as he moved another kick landed over his kidney. Reflex made him try to get to his feet, fight back, but his hands were fastened to the floor somehow and he couldn't rise more than a few inches.
They were canny enough to keep out of range of his shackled feet. The strikes were designed to inflict pain more than injury, but by the time it was over he could feel the stab of a cracked rib every time he drew a breath and he wasn't sure he could have stood if he'd needed to. It wouldn't last, but that wasn't as much comfort as it might have been; the knowledge that nothing would fix it but time was familiar and wearying, though he couldn't remember why.
He lay there panting until he heard the tap of Doctor Risman's heels. "You disobeyed, and we had to wipe you. This is what happens when you don't follow your orders," she told him cooly.
Nomad stretched his face into a painful grin. "I could do this all day."
"Disobey again and you'll have to," she said. "Wipe him."
Re: FILL: Lie Down on the Wire 6/?
In the moments between waking and when the chair enclosed him, he ran over his memories frantically, trying to fix them in his mind, but he knew he was failing; he could no longer remember the red-headed woman's name, nor why the image of a very old lady lying in her bed made him want to cry. The only names that came back to him reliably anymore were his own and Bucky's, and Bucky's face wavered erratically between clean-shaven laughter and a scowl with hair falling in his eyes.
Steve's own beard wasn't growing much; he didn't remember ever shaving, so they must have been doing it for him while he was unconscious. It meant he didn't have even that rudimentary clock to keep track of his days.
The woman, who he sometimes remembered was called Doctor Risman, always asked him if he knew his name, if he knew where he was from, and he began to anticipate the questions eagerly because they were usually what tripped his cascades of memory--painful as they were, and only moreso each time, they brought him back to himself as much as he could get.
He had the feeling the periods of blankness, when he just accepted the world, were getting longer, and it terrified him.
*
"Can you tell me your name?" the woman asked.
He stared at her, trying to fight down the feeling that disappointing her would have unpleasant consequences. But nothing came to him, and finally he had to shake his head. It was a relief when she smiled, though something in him was...disappointed too. "Take all the time you need," she told him.
"I don't know," he said.
"You're Nomad," she said.
He turned that over in his head for a moment, wondering why it didn't seem to fit. But he supposed he couldn't complain too much if she gave him a name; it wasn't like he had another to counter with.
"Nomad. All right."
"Good. Now say: hail Hydra."
"Hail Hydra," he repeated obediently.
*
He was alone in a room with a man. The man was handcuffed to a bolt in the floor and had a bag over his head, and from the sound of it he was crying. Through a gag, most likely; he hadn't said anything coherent.
Nomad loaded the pistol with the one round he'd been provided. When he was finished, he looked down at the shackled man and said, "Why am I doing this?"
Doctor Risman's voice didn't come from anywhere in particular. "He's a murderer. This is justice."
"I'm pretty sure we don't execute people by firing squad anymore," Nomad said. "And when we did it wasn't like this."
"Kill him," the doctor said sharply, "or there will be consequences."
Nomad looked into the upper corner of the room thoughtfully. "I don't like bullies," he said, and shot out the camera.
Then he sat on the floor and waited for the knockout gas.
*
He woke with the peculiar lassitude in his limbs that meant he'd been in the chair. His hands were cuffed behind him. That was as far as he got before a booted foot slammed into his ribs. Nomad grunted and curled around the impact, but even as he moved another kick landed over his kidney. Reflex made him try to get to his feet, fight back, but his hands were fastened to the floor somehow and he couldn't rise more than a few inches.
They were canny enough to keep out of range of his shackled feet. The strikes were designed to inflict pain more than injury, but by the time it was over he could feel the stab of a cracked rib every time he drew a breath and he wasn't sure he could have stood if he'd needed to. It wouldn't last, but that wasn't as much comfort as it might have been; the knowledge that nothing would fix it but time was familiar and wearying, though he couldn't remember why.
He lay there panting until he heard the tap of Doctor Risman's heels. "You disobeyed, and we had to wipe you. This is what happens when you don't follow your orders," she told him cooly.
Nomad stretched his face into a painful grin. "I could do this all day."
"Disobey again and you'll have to," she said. "Wipe him."