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Is he the one that's screaming? It's all he can hear beyond the high pitched whine in his head. Maybe it's him. His throat feels raw. He can taste iron.
White, blue, red flashes across his eyes. He can feel those sparks roll over his skin. He'd be shaking it he wasn't secured to the chair. His teeth felt like porcelain, rattling in his gums. It it weren't for the bitter tasting disk of plastic that weighs down his tongue, it would be torn apart by his teeth.
The light stops. He keeps jerking in his seat, the aftershocks cruel and unrelenting. The screaming has stopped. The whine has not. It's louder, all-encompassing. He can't think beyond it.
A rough hand grips at his hair, dragging his head up. He thinks it's Rumlow sneering in his face, but his vision is blurry and he can't make out more than those cold eyes. Shark eyes.
“Who is Steve Rogers?” Rumlow gives his hair another tug.
He waits for the recognition to set in, waits for the memories of a mission to hit him, but his head is full of static.
He says nothing.
Rumlow grins and lets go.
He wonders why he can feel tears on his face.