ZIP
“Are you familiar with a drug named ZIP?”
Fury gave Bruce an unimpressed look.
“Zeta Interacting Protein.” Bruce turned to Tony, who was lounging in a wheeled chair, listening intently. “You might’ve come across it at some point.”
“It sounds kind of familiar,” Tony admitted. He pulled the little rubber stretchy toy – a green man, kind of grubby – to its limits, then pinged it back against his palm. “I don’t think I’ve ever used it myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I should certainly hope you’ve never used it on yourself, at least,” Bruce muttered, then returned to speaking to the room at large. “It’s experimental, mainly used for PTSD sufferers – rape victims, army veterans, etcetera. In very small – tiny, really – amounts, it can erase selective memories.”
“So, you’ve found traces of it in our Mr Doe?” Nick Fury said, looking more interested now.
“Not traces.” Bruce swallowed. “He’s practically drowning in it. Chemically induced permanent amnesia, from what I can tell, but – I’ve never seen anything like this before. Ever. And when I say ‘I’, I mean the entirety of medical science.”
“Is there anything left at all?” Steve spoke up.
Bruce cleared his throat. “Well, his narrative memory is wiped out, but his procedural memory seems okay. He can walk, talk, understand the world, but the specifics are cloudy. For instance, he’ll know what music is, but he probably won’t recognize specific artists.”
“I have someone I can introduce AC/DC to,” Tony said brightly, and Natasha stamped on his foot.
“So he’ll never get his memories back,” Fury summarized.
“It’s not quite that simple. Because I’ve never encountered anything even similar to this, I can’t say anything for certain – like I said earlier, if something he comes across is deeply embedded or plays a significant role in his past life, it might trigger something.” Bruce sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Again, I’m not sure of anything with this case.”
“Alright.” Steve cleared his throat. “Thank you, Dr Banner.” He exited the office, drawing up short when his team – with other tag-alongs – met him as a crowd just outside the door.
Steve could feel Sam and Nat at his back, moving around to join the rest in facing him, and he was eternally grateful for them. He scanned the agents staring intently at him, some asking questions he couldn’t hear, their lips moving but the sound not registering.
Agent Steve Rogers was renowned in the New York FBI branch for being a people person, a strange label in the eyes of some. It was true that Steve could be prickly, as well as tense and borderline aggressive when in a bad mood, but he was also entirely selfless and well-liked among his friends.
His main gift, however, was putting together teams.
“Wilson and Romanoff, you’re with me,” he called out, and the buzzing group fell silent, anticipation building. It was no surprise, Steve thought vaguely. This was one of the most interesting cases they’d had in years. “You’ll be field operations, if we need you, as well as Barton and Odinson. Stark and Banner will be the brains on this case.” A chorus of disappointed groans went up from those not selected, and one girl with a dark ponytail and a purple bracelet actually stamped her foot. “The rest of you will be back-up, if we’re desperate.” They dispersed, and Steve turned to face his team.
These people were tried, tested, and trusted. He felt kind of proud, looking at them now. He still recalled Clint’s first day on the job, with a coffee stain down his front, eyes bright as he had declared himself “the best shot in the whole business”. Thor, who was even bigger and broader than Steve himself. Bruce, who had just now been dragged out of Fury’s office by Tony in time to hear his name being said. Tony himself, the most infuriating person to work with over coms. Natasha, looking faintly amused (her resting face), arms folded, tapping perfect fingernails against her elbows. And Sam, one of Steve’s favourite people on the planet, mirroring Natasha’s stance, watching Steve carefully.
Sam had already talked to Steve about the delicate nature of this case. “He has your name tattooed on his back,” Sam had said, looking Steve straight in the eye. “And he doesn’t remember how it happened. This could be some deep shit, Steve. Are you sure you want to get involved?” When Steve had insisted yes (when had he ever backed down from a challenge?), Sam had said, “this could get personal.” And he’d said it gently. Very, very gently.
Steve had actually considered, for a few moments. Then he had nodded. And Sam had said, “if we end up getting shot at, I expect you to offer yourself up as a human shield,” which had made Steve laugh, and then they had both ordered takeout and forgotten the whole thing.
Sort of forgotten. Not entirely.
Now, Steve lifted his chin. “Let’s try and squeeze some blood out of this stone.”
“Time to work for a living,” Tony muttered, and he sounded cheerful about it.
***
“I didn’t even dream last night. I was hoping I would, but – “
He tailed off. The short, quiet doctor was taking notes, flicking his gaze between John (that name still didn’t sit right) and his clipboard.
“I just – feel helpless.” John wriggled in his seat, unable to get comfortable. “Someone took my entire life away, and I can’t do anything about it. It’s horrible.”
The doctor nodded, coughed once, and gestured towards the two steaming cardboard cups in the middle of the table. “Tea or coffee?”
He blinked, startled. “Um – I don’t know – “
“That’s okay. Try them both.”
John was reminded of the blond Agent Rogers from the night before, but shook the thought from his head and leaned forward, taking one in each hand, sipping them in turn. After tasting both, he wrinkled his nose and set the one in his left hand back down. “That one tastes like grass trimmings.” He raised the one in his right hand. “I like this one better.”
“Well, there you go. One, you know what grass trimmings taste like. And two, you’re a coffee person.” The doctor sat back in his chair, looking pleased. “You’re not helpless, John. People are defined by their choices – you don’t remember yours, so now you get to make new ones, or rediscover your old, or both. Try things, and see what your body remembers. Even if nothing comes back, you can still find yourself.”
“Okay.” He ran a flesh finger over one of the engravings in his metal hand, and repeated, in a quieter tone, “okay.”
“I think we’re done for today.” The doctor got up, and John followed his lead, hesitantly shaking the other man’s hand. “I’ll be on call if you remember anything or want to talk, alright? And call me Bruce.”
When John got out of the room (the same interrogation-type room he’d been in on the first day), his eyes immediately spotted a blond head above the rest. Agent Rogers was facing away from him, gathered with several other agents and FBI employees, all looking intently at a set of screens that displayed –
John registered Bruce moving away from him across the room, and followed. The screens, he could see as he drew closer, were showcasing his tattoos. Photographs presumably taken during the full-body scan, from every angle, on every part of his flesh. They’d had to wrap the arm (which, it turned out, couldn’t be easily taken off) in something deflecting, then do a smaller scan just for the metal and its own patterns.
“They’re not connected,” someone was saying. A man with a goatee and dark hair, nibbling on a pen when he wasn’t speaking. “At least, I haven’t found anything connected yet. They’re – “
“ – on me?” They all started, and Rogers’ head whipped round particularly fast. John stepped closer to the computers, not even bothering to apologize for surprising them. “These are all on my body, right?”
“Yeah.” Goatee had recovered the quickest, and darted forward to fiddle with a mouse and keyboard. A moment later, one of the screens flickered and changed to show a line of Chinese writing. “That one’s behind your left ear, and I’m working on getting it translated – “
The words flowed without thinking. He just opened his mouth, and spoke.
It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Even Goatee had shut up, looking at John with bug eyes.
“You can speak Chinese?” Agent Rogers said, after several stunned moments.
“I - I didn’t know I could,” John stammered. He peered at the tattoo onscreen. “It’s a dialect called – Wenzhounese? And that’s a – that’s an address. And a date.” He made a noise of surprise. “Today’s date.”
“Devil’s Language.” This voice was deeper even than Rogers’, and came from the tall, intimidating man with the eyepatch. “Wenzhounese is nicknamed the Devil’s Language, because outsiders find it so difficult to understand.” His one eye was trained on John with a kind of carefully detached interest. “I’ve heard about it before, but not much.” He raised his voice, speaking to Goatee and Bruce. “Track down that address, I want it checked as soon as possible.”
“That was right under our noses,” Rogers muttered, and the man beside him (John had heard him referred to as Sam once before) said, “behind his left ear, actually.”