Chapter Text
Steve woke up in darkness. An endless, all consuming darkness. He couldn't move his hands, feet, legs, nothing. He strained his ears, desperate to hear some sort of sound: a whisper, a bang, anything. But there was nothing.
A part of him wondered if he was dead, was this what death felt like?
No. What was to come was far worse than death, but Steve didn't know that.
His back was pressed up against something cold and flat- Steve could tell that much at least- and if he couldn't move any of his other limbs he must be strapped down to something. Right?
A small, barely audible click could be heard from the corner of the room. Like a door shutting. Then sound felt familiar, somehow, a distant nagging feeling at the back of his mind.
"Mission number103." The voice reported mechanically.
Mission number 103? What does that even mean? How long have I been here? Wha- Steve thought nosily, a million thoughts running through his mind at the same time, but he was quickly cut off when a bright light shone down on him.
He could see everything. The viewing screen in the corner, the blacked out windows, the multiple medical apparatus scattered everywhere. Glass cylinders, filled with a bubbling green acid, were stationed around the room, connected by wires all hooked up to...
Him.
Steve could taste bile in his throat. What the hell was this place? Where were the others? Did Dugan make it out ok?
He caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the silver cabinets around the exam table he was strapped to.
His hair had been shaved off, and in it's place black dots and lines had been charted across it. He was naked from the waist up, two wires stuck to his chest, connecting to the heart rate monitor beside him. But the most startling thing of all in his reflection, was the bionic leg where his real one should be.
What the hell? Steve thought, thrashing about on the table, his limbs strapped down by thick cable wires.
"Nineteen." The man said, looking at Steve so intensely that Steve had to drop his gaze back down to his new leg.
What was this guy on about?
"Paintbrush."
The heart rate monitor beside him sped up. Distant memories of him painting as a child with his mother drifted into his mind.
"Roses."
Steve felt his fingers twitch involuntarily. The first double date he and Bucky went on he gave the girl an enormous posset of roses, which dwarfed his smaller body. Bucky had to carry them home for him when the girl didn't even turn up.
"One."
A small throbbing started at the base of his skull, sending shivers crawling up his back. A memory, too distant in his mind, flashed once then disappeared. Why couldn't he remember?
"Darkness."
The throbbing increased to a dull thumping. There it was again, the emptiness, the helplessness.
"Eight."
He felt his muscles spasm and contract, the thumping increasing to a loud ringing.
"Ice."
Steve squeezed his eyes shut, that one hit home somewhere. He felt his mind splitting in two, dredging up buried, traumatic memories.
He could almost feel the ice creeping onto his body, suffocating him, rendering him powerless.
"Shield."
He couldn't breathe; he couldn't think. His mind was only focused on the words coming out of the man's mouth.
More memories, more sorrow. He could see everyone he had ever saved, defended, attacked with that shield. Every life he had saved, yet at the cost of losing a part of himself.
"Homecoming."
His vision blurred, his heart throbbed, he felt himself falling further and further into the rabbit-hole.
He had wanted to come home, that was all. To have a place to rest once the battle had been fought, once the war had been won. His home had always been with Peggy.
"Red."
The red dress; the red lipstick; the red in his shield; Tony's red armour; Natasha's hair. Every memory of red ran through his mind, yet it felt like it was all being ripped away from him.
Steve screamed at the top of his lungs in agony, his brain felt as if it was about to explode.
Then it stopped. There was only silence in the room.
The man looked up from the crimson, blood-stained book he was holding. It looked about 30 years old.
"Soldat?" The voice sinisterly.
"Ready to comply."