She wasn't sure why, but she was surprised when her eyes opened.
And then confused when she saw the ground passing beneath her despite her feet not moving.
She tried to catch each tile with her eyes, but it brought an ache to her head, so instead she squeezed her lids shut and tried to breathe. When she finally opened them again, she was careful to look around.
Oh, she realized, I'm in a wheelchair.
Although it bobbed, she eventually turned her head to look above her, finding the face of someone unrecognizable.
That's when she remembered what happened to her, and the sudden spark of adrenaline had her surge against her restraints.
Nothing good ever comes from being restrained in a wheelchair.
She yanked at her wrists, but the tight cuffs held her back easily.
"Uspokoysya, vse v poryadke," the young man's voice said calmly.
"I don't know what the fuck you're saying, but let me the fuck out," she argued, pulling at her wrists despite knowing it wouldn't do anything.
"Mayor zovet tebya, ptichka, verno? Nu, ptichka, stoboy vse budet poryadke. You, okay," he said, accent making the English words clunky in his mouth.
It wasn't a question, but a statement.
"I am not okay," she huffed in indignation, giving her best glare to the man above her.
He continued talking as if she hadn't said anything, his words soothing as if he was trying to console a child.
A few moments later, she was wheeled into a room, barely catching sight of the guards before hearing the sound of doors shutting and locks sliding into place behind them. The room was dark and she could barely distinguish shadow from object before she was stopped in front of a small group of men.
"Hello, ptichka, how are you today?"
She didn't deign to acknowledge the Russian's words, eyes focused instead on the empty space beside him.
"Ah, but you had behaved so well the last time we spoke," he taunted sarcastically.
Still, she said nothing, hoping it would embarrass him in front of his friends. To show that despite everything he had done, she still wouldn't answer his questions.
He just smiled, although it didn't seem annoyed. It seemed... satisfied. And that made her worry.
"Gospoda, this is who I have been working with these last months," the Russian said, and Marlow didn't miss how he spoke English. "She has had broken bones, stab wounds, taken beatings that would make most grown men cry, yet she has not broken. My little ptichka has not sung," he explained with an air about his words that she could only liken to pride.
The disgust she felt at his tone was only overshadowed by his words.
'My ptichka'.
I am not yours.
"That is why I have suggested we integrate her into our ranks."
Marlow's eyes shot up at that, meeting the Russian's and knowing then for certain; it didn't matter if the others understood his words, he wanted her to know. He wanted her to be scared.
"We already know that our device works, so I suggest we use it on her. We need to know where she got her information, whether there are copies, determine who else may know. Afterwards, I believe her resolve would be beneficial to make use of. She has told us her name is Marlow Hendrix, and if that is true, there are no records of her. When we take care of her counterparts, no one will come looking for her. She will be a ghost."
"Smozhet li ona vyzhit' v ustroystvo?" one of the men asked.
"If they are careful, yes, she will be fine."
"Khorosho, prodolzhay."
"Privedi yeye syuda, Denikin," the Russian nodded towards her.
Or, to the man behind her, because he started wheeling her towards the group of men, and then behind them, where she was directed toward a machine that made her entire body recoil.
"No, no—no—no, you're not putting me in that thing!" she bit, trying to push herself out of the chair, wrists burning at her attempts to wrench away. "Don't!"
"Ah, so my ptichka recognizes this device?"
"Stop," she growled, honing in on the Russian. "Don't fucking do this."
"I gave you a chance yesterday. You did not want to answer, so this will make you. I told you I would make you sing."
She was stopped sickeningly close to the machine before guards surround the chair, blocking any escape, but that didn't stop Marlow from trying. From barreling shoulder first into one of the men wearing an olive green uniform. From punching, and clawing, and kicking, much to the apparent delight of the Russian behind the guards.
Her heart beat hard enough for her to feel it in her ears, watching helplessly as she was forced into the chair, feeling leather straps squeeze her chest and legs while her arms were locked into metal restraints.
"Don't fucking do this," she seethed, as if her words would suddenly shock the Russian into changing his mind. "Don't," she panted, "do this."
"Do not worry, my ptichka, it will be over soon."
"I am not your ptichka, you fucking bast—"
She didn't know what to expect, but nothing could have prepared her for the feeling of having her brain scrambled. Fried. Blended.
There were no words that could describe it—not that she could even attempt, considering all she could comprehend was blinding pain.
⁂
They stopped the machine not long after they'd started it, not wanting to hurt her brain.
They knew the risk of it, the doctors had been briefed, they'd made the calculations because unlike the Soldier could withstand the device, healing any synapses that were destroyed, she could not.
So, they let the machine run for half a minute before turning it off, unloading her, and dropping her back into the wheelchair.
"We will continue sessions daily until she shows signs of compliance. Then we will question her," the Russian explained, speaking now in his own language.
"You are too stubborn for you good," one of the men laughed, clapping the Russian on the back.
"Probably, but with the excuse of leaked information, it is worth it. We have no idea where she got those details—we need to do everything to find anyone else who has it, and eliminate those threats," he said, cautious of his words.
If she hadn't stolen files, there was a rat, and it was possible that that rat was with him now. And if there was, he wasn't willing to give him time to escape.
⁂
Every morning, the girl was woken up, anger and fear coursing through her only long enough to be wheeled from her cell, down the halls and into the chair. But soon, she couldn't remember why she was angry or afraid. She only knew that her body was screaming for her to not sit in that wheelchair. To not go with those men.
Every morning, the world got a little hazier, a little harder to understand.
Every morning, she was forgetting how to be alive.
It wasn't long before couldn't remember not remembering. She didn't know what happened before that moment, or what would come next.
Then, she just didn't know.
She simply was.
People spoke to her, and she might have spoken back, but words had a mind of their own, leaving her body without her control.
⁂
"You fried her brain!" the Russian snarled, face only inches from the lead doctor.
"No, no we were sure, we were careful."
"Then how do you explain her story from fifty years in the future? Her talk of aliens and time travel?"
The moment the girl started with her extravagant tales, he'd told her to stop; he was too livid to listen another moment.
"I don't know, Major."
"Because you fucked her brain! What are we to do now? I wanted to use her, I wanted to put her on delicate operations, and now what? Huh?!"
"I don't know, sir."
"Fuck. Now we won't know where she got that information."
He braced his hands on the steel table beside the device, chest heaving.
His only explanation for all of this was that she had been telling some truth when she dropped those small pieces of information. Her birthday didn't change, and neither did her name—there was probably some fucker out there who had the code name Captain America. The rest was likely some electro-induced fever dream. Or something. Maybe it was some American movie she'd watched, or a story she'd read, but that damn doctor fucked up what may have been a perfect recruit.
"Is she salvageable?" he asked, moving his eyes to the girl, who stood a few feet away with the blank stare he'd come to recognize from the Soldier.
"The electroshock should not have damaged her brain significantly—we can run some tests, but it may be possible to induce similar effects using chemical means."
"She would be complaint?"
"There may need to be some type of physical conditioning, but yes, she should maintain obedience under their influence."
"Are you speaking hypothetically, or do you have the drug?"
"We have such drugs in the works. We've been interested in testing our hypotheses for some time, we just needed approval."
"You have my approval. But, doctor, if you fuck her up more than you already have, it is on your hands."
"Understood, sir."
Hey everyone!
I just realized that this chapter was never posted, but chapter 11 was! Hope the story makes more sense now, lol!
Hope you're enjoying!