Torture, Expirament
He's still woozy from whatever they did last.
He can’t remember exactly what it was. Just that he woke up shaking and his head hurting more than he can ever remember.
He’s having a hard time remembering anything. But he’s almost certain that he’s a prisoner here. But there’s someone out there that wants to help him.
He thinks. Maybe.
There’s not much to the dark cell he’s in. There’s names, carved into the wall. When he reads them, they remind him of something, but he doesn’t know what. Maybe he was in this cell before.
He traces the name Steve, then the one next to it, Bucky, wondering who they were. Maybe they were kept in this cell before he was. They left their mark, a testament to future prisoners that they weren’t alone.
It’s almost a nice thought.
The door swings open and he looks up, leaving his hand (his only hand) on the last e of Steve.
Two armed guards walk in, another man waiting in the hall. The guards approach, and one grabs him by his right arm, pulling him up.
“Let me guess, today’s special, more torture,” he quipps at the man in the hall. He blinks, not sure where the words came from, but the man scowls. The other guard hits him in the stomach, and he almost falls.
“You’d think we burnt that smart mouth out of him by now,” someone grumbles. He shudders, not entirely sure what was meant by that. They drag him out, and pull him along; hitting and cursing at him as he stumbles.
The room they enter smells like chemicals. Reminds him of someone struggling to breathe, coughing like they’re dying. The thought makes him plant his feet best he can.
There’s a metal table with straps in the center of the room. A cart with all sorts of sharp things rests nearby.
The table by itself, makes him sick with terror. He can only imagine what might happen if he allows himself to be tied down.
“Nonononononono!” He cries, trying to wrench himself away. But the guards are stronger, and he’s tired and thin and not in fighting shape. Doesn’t mean he won’t try. Because there is no way he’s letting them strap him onto that thing.
In the end, it doesn’t matter. He screams, and pulls, and does his very best to get away, but they haul him up and strap him down, and he finds he’s too weak to resist much.
He’s shaking, too hot and too cold at the same time. His stomach cramps and he wonders distantly if he’s going to be sick. His heart beating a hundred miles a minute. He’s lying on his back, his stump is held out away from his body. Though his other arm is down at his side. Several people come in, and he can’t see them all, doesn’t know what’s happening.
Someone touches him and he flinches, tries to get away from their hands, but of course he’s stuck.
They talk among themselves, murmuring too quiet for him to hear.
“We are ready to begin,” Someone says after an eternity. One of the people, all of them in white coats, walks around to where he can see them, holding a syringe.
Tenderly, they brush the too long hair off of his forehead, and he shakes.
“Why so scared, Soldier? We’re going to make you better,” the man says.
“Please,” he begs, although he’s not sure what for.
The man above him tisks.
“None of that, now.” The man brushes at his hair again, away from his neck, and sticks the needle in.
He can’t contain the small yelp of pain at the prick.
The man tisks again, turning away.
He begins to feel heavy, and his tremors stop. But he still feels as alert as he was before. Just, unable to move.
One of the doctors pokes at him, and he can’t make himself react, though he wants to twitch away from them.
“He’s ready,” someone says.
He’s unable to do anything. He hears metallic things clink together. Something cold and sharp is pressed into his stump. When it begins to cut into him, he wishes he could scream, that there would be something to focus on rather than the all consuming pain eminating from where they are slicing into what remains of his left arm.
He has no idea how long it takes him to pass out.