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Sam Wilson | late 30s-ish

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[bracchium]

[As each letter of Rumlow's name flakes away one by one, the snow builds around them in heaps. Bucky expects a rough pair of hands to shove him into a humming chair, the programming binds him, makes him docile. Whatever his handler commands he will do. However, no such orders arrive. He stares up at Sam, his blue eyes wide and, for a moment, unseeing as changes take hold under the surface. But as the last syllable of Rumlow's name falls into the snow, his vision clears and the remnants of the storm brush away.

He knows this feeling, waking up with no memories, with no idea of what he's done, who he's hurt. He wants to run, to get away from this sensation, but he doesn't know where to go, where he is.

Something happened, but he can't remember.]

Where am I? [He asks in Russian. He thinks his handler might know more.]

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[ continued here for AC purposes, since journal inboxes don't count anymore! ]