ever marching as to war

McCoy had only headed home for a brief period of time. He knows he ought to've stayed longer, but guilt and worry and new ideas kept popping into his mind. He's been through med school, he knows how to operate on low amounts of sleep and stimulants in his bloodstream. It's why he's present when he starts hearing sounds that shouldn't, by rights, be going off.

The patient's awake, looks like.

"Hey, hey, whoa," he murmurs, half to himself as he assesses the situation at hand. "Look, if you fight much more, I've got a sedative that'll calm you down whether you like it or not, but I'd really rather do this where we cooperate." McCoy figures he's either about to get spit on, cut in half, or, miracle upon miracles, his request might actually work.

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Was this the same problem? Was this a different problem? It was a problem, at least. Something was wrong, something hadn't worked. He really missed the reassurance of working with mechanisms.

"This is promising," Tony said, frowning as he crossed to stand ready if Barnes continued to struggle. "I don't know who's in there right now, but no one's trying to hurt you. Unless... you get free and go on the- Doc? Xavier? What are we looking at, here."

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"A problem," Charles mutters, somewhat obviously. He's running on too little sleep to be much more clever than that, though he's not so far gone that he doesn't shoot his companions a glare for their startling lack of bedside manner. They ought to be engendering trust right about now, not spitting out thinly veiled threats to a man clearly scared out of his wits.

Not for the first time (and certainly not for the last), Charles wants to reach out, not with his hands, but with his mind, but he necessarily settles for the former, pressing a hand to Barnes' shoulder in the hopes human contact might settle his nerves better than McCoy's sedatives.

"We want to help you," Charles says in a clear voice, though he realizes Stark had a point. They've no idea who they're trying to help, if it's Barnes or the Soviets' Winter Soldier. "But we need to know your name. Please, if you'll just calm down..."

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There's pressure on his good shoulder and a stranger's offering him drugs as though they are a kindness. It's the words of the man with the light in his chest, however, that finally take purchase, cutting through the blind panic of adrenaline.

No one's trying to hurt you.

Can he believe that? He's tied down like an animal and he's missing an arm... But that's not where the pain's coming from, is it? It's the most startling of his injuries, but it's old, obviously healed over, though he'll be damned if knows what happened to it any more than he knows who the hell these men are, and why, exactly, they're trying to help him.

His breaths aren't coming any slower, chest heaving with the effort, but he stops fighting so hard against the restraints, getting the sense that struggling isn't the smartest thing he could be doing right now if he wants to stay awake.

"Why--?" His voice is as shaky as the rest of him, eyes darting to each of the strangers' faces in turn. "Where am I?"

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McCoy shoots Xavier a wary look, staring at the scans in case they're about to tell him something, but the only information they're giving him is that something is going on. He's too busy looking at the scans, shooting Tony a look that says he'd better take this because he's too busy trying to find some reason for the results he's seen.

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"Tabula Rasa," Tony said, hovering beside him, absently checking to see if his face is registering any recognition. The scans and tests will probably have more reliable info, but maybe there'll be something in the face, too. "A bit... on the nose, I know. It's a clinic, you've been... a little under the weather."

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A laugh springs out of his throat, disbelieving and shrill. On instinct, he tries to set up again; it goes about as well as the first few times, the restraints forcing him back onto the bed.

"So you tied me up?" he says, keeping his focus on the man with the light, even if he makes the least amount of sense just to look at him. "What the hell kinda doctors are you?"

Edited Date: 2012-05-31 01:29 am (UTC)

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"The good kind?" Tony ventured, glancing at them as they worked. "The kind that would rather not get injured in the course of their- what do you remember?"

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He tries twisting his head to follow the man's line of vision, but finds he can only turn so far before he comes up against the straps fighting to keep him still.

"A buncha crumb-bums standing over me like I'm a science project-- Where's my arm?"

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"To be fair you are very slightly a science project. An important one. Fixing you... is the project, your arm's around, I didn't even take it apa-"

Tony paused, and then considered the question. It could just be alarm at the strange surroundings, but he didn't know if that was why Barnes was reacting to the empty space beyond his shoulder in quite that manner.

"...you do mean the robot one, right?"

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The blood drains from his face, leaving his skin ashen, and for the first time since waking up, he goes perfectly still. His mind's swimming with implications, but that's about all that's in there.

What do you remember?

Nothing. There's nothing there. No memory, save for those few he's made in the past couple of minutes. No explanation for a robot arm.

"What."

Edited Date: 2012-05-31 02:30 am (UTC)

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At some point I nodded off. There's a crash room down the hall, or serviceable couches, and maybe I'll end up there, but... Not yet.

There is nowhere more important I need to be right now.

This is confirmed when I hear noises of struggle from inside. I snap awake and am on my feet and striding through the clinic before I can even process what I'm hearing. Xavier is the first form I see, though all three men are there, leaning over the bed. It's his shoulder I touch.

"What's happened?"

Edited Date: 2012-05-31 03:14 am (UTC)

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So engrossed is Charles in the scene playing out before him, Barnes' panic and McCoy's litany of curses, that he starts at the hand on his shoulder, turning around at once only to come eye-to-chin with Steve Rogers. Out of some sense of self-preservation, Charles immediately grabs for the Captain's arm, taking a step towards the door as though he actually has half a chance at dragging the man away from the bed.

But seeing as they don't have any concrete answers for why James Barnes is suddenly devoid of any memory, programming or no, Charles will be damned if he doesn't try to head off another catastrophe.

"Steve, I'm sorry, but I don't know that it's wise for you to be here--"

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The respite of shock is brief at best, sound again filling his ears after dropping out for a few seconds while he tried -- and failed -- to make sense of the madhouse he's woken up to. There's a new voice, now, unfamiliar to him, but apparently not to these so-called doctors, judging by the way the short one jumps to attention, like he's been burned.

"And why not?" he interrupts, voice raw, straining to see the most recent arrival, but catching a glimpse of little more than a hint of blond hair. "You gonna tie this Steve guy up, too?"

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I freeze up as my gaze hits Xavier's. His concern is understandable, and warranted.

Bucky has no idea who I am. I gently, easily draw my arm from the professor's grasp and step around him, attention flicking to McCoy and landing on Tony for a longer moment before it drops to the young, disheveled man in the bed.

"No, they're not. And we're going to get these restraints off of you right now, okay?"

Edited Date: 2012-05-31 05:05 am (UTC)

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Well, that definitely gets his attention. "Steve," he says, voice hushed and his irascible profanities are subdued now, because he's got a better idea about what he's seeing on his screens. "I don't think that's a very good idea."

He steps into the picture, not sure how to demonstrate what's going on, so he juts his thumb over to Steve. "Look, he wants to untie you. He's your friend and I don't blame him. My best friend on a bed like this, I'm tearing the roof down, but I got one question before we can take those off." And he looks at Steve, here, implying that if he knows what's best for everyone, the restraints are staying on until they get some control. "You have any clue what you did to get in those? Because we're a little wary to let you loose and for old habits to kick in."

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They're afraid of him. That much is obvious. But while the feeling was mutual up to a few minutes ago, his fear is beginning to ebb, replaced with something equally as primal, but far more dangerous. Anger blooms hot under bruised skin, his hand balling into a fist, fingers clenched around the over-starched sheet. His expression shifts, mouth becoming a hard line as they argue with each other, demand of him questions he has no way of answering. Nostrils flaring, eyes gone narrow, his gaze falls upon Steve, the one sane man of the bunch, with arms as big as his head. The only guy who wants to untie him.

He doesn't know him from Adam, but friendships have been built on less.

"The only clue I've got is that you're more scared of me than I am of you," he says, breaths forever a staccato, "and I'm starting to get damn curious as to why."

The last is all but growled, punctuated with a futile shake of his arm against the restraints that makes the whole bed rattle. "You can take these guys," he directs to Steve, desperate. "C'mon."

Edited Date: 2012-05-31 10:58 pm (UTC)

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"Give us some room," I say, a kind of calm command slipping into my voice that I haven't made use of much on the island. I look hard at McCoy, who I know is genuinely concerned and trying to help but is clearly just exacerbating this.

"Now." I'm sure to make eye contact with Tony and Xavier in turn.

They don't need to leave, but they need to back off.

When my attention's back on Bucky, it is undivided. I take a liberty and put my hand on his shoulder, not putting any pressure on it, just... make that connection.

"These men have been fighting to save your life. For hours. They have no interest in hurting you. I know we haven't given you a single reason to trust us, but I'd like to. I want to get these restraints off of you. But I have to ask you to calm down first. Is that fair?"

Edited Date: 2012-06-01 02:49 am (UTC)

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"I'd be a lot calmer if you'd just untie me."

Staring Steve in the eye, he tries to find the connection, the memory, anything to help him buy that this man is best friend. He wonders if the touch at his shoulder isn't meant to be familiar, but doesn't dare give voice to the question. Fighting isn't getting him anywhere, even if it's the only thing he seems to know how to do.

Reluctantly, he focuses on his breathing, slowly forcing the air out from his lungs before sucking it back through his nose, keeping a running count in his head to ignore the way it hurts. Only after repeating this a few times does he remember to let go of the sheet, flexing stiff fingers so he can lay his hand flat on the bed.

His face takes on a defiant light, his meaning clear without another word. This calm enough for you?

Edited Date: 2012-06-01 03:33 am (UTC)

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The familiarity of that expression is staggering. It's just... him. I know that look, so much that it almost, almost makes me smile. It would, if he knew who I was.

"It's a start," I say, and undo first the strap across his chest, pinning his arm, then move down the bed to free his legs.

If he lashes out, I'll handle it. McCoy has his hypo and I can restrain him, but I believe, I have to believe, it won't be necessary.

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He swallows a wince as he sits up, every inch of him seeming to ache, though it doesn't feel like anything's broken. Holding a steady gaze on the doctors, he carefully swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet touching the cool floor, and in spite of the pain, slouching doesn't come naturally. He sits with his shoulders squared and back straight, not making to stand. If they view him as a threat, sudden movements aren't in his best interest.

Without thinking, he finds himself taking note of the room: exits, weapons, obstacles, his chances if this ends up coming down to a fight regardless of promises. While he has no way to gauge whether any of them are telling the truth, he's starting to wonder if their fear isn't justified when his eyes fall back onto Steve, and he picks up on something he didn't earlier.

A sarcastic thank you is on the tip of his tongue, but instead he notes, "You're injured."

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"Not badly," I reply, quickly enough to cut anyone else off from trying to explain why.

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"A matter of debate," says Charles, suddenly wondering if Barnes is the only one who sustained brain damage, though he leaves that much unsaid. Having seen the extent of Erik's injuries upon freeing himself from Shaw's table just the month before, Charles can understand the impulse to save one's friend, regardless of whether or not he agrees with it under these particular circumstances. Barnes hadn't been in any danger on that table; the rest of the men in this room, however -- not to mention the men, women, and children in the Compound -- might be now that he's freed.

"If you'll give us some room," he adds, stepping forward. They're not lacking for strong personalities, and while Charles lacks Steve's physical presence, his conviction in this matter runs about equal. "I'd like to complete my examination... Preferably without comment from anyone save our friend on the bed."

Barnes has already been fed enough information; Charles doesn't want to risk him gleaming anymore before they have a chance to take a thorough look around and determine what went wrong.

Edited Date: 2012-06-02 12:59 am (UTC)

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"I think we can manage no comment, I will... tinker, while you assess," Tony said, stepping over to the device he'd made for the attempt at fixing Barnes. He wanted to see if he could spot any problems with it.

He was fairly sure he wouldn't -- he'd made it, after all -- but it provided something to do. "Captain, I need to borrow your finger, just hold this wire down, all right?"

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I shoot Tony a look, skeptical, but I'll play along. I look back at Bucky, nodding briefly to him, then step away.

I don't immediately put my finger to the wire, then stifle a sigh and do so.

"Like this?"

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He couldn't believe that worked. Well, dubiously, and he was sort of obviously humoring him, but Tony would take it.

"Exactly like that, just keep doing that for... until further notice," he said, glancing over his shoulder to check the assessment was under way before turning back to actually tinker with the device, since he might as well.

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Unenthusiatic in his cooperation to get prodded some more by the guys who had him strapped to a bed, he nevertheless looks up, patiently, at the doctor. This one's shorter than the rest, maybe a little younger, too, if not by much, but it's the accent that really sets him apart.

One Brit and a handful of Americans. Interesting makeup.

The questions start off open-ended, fishing around for information he just doesn't have, and by the time they get around to the issue of his name again, he's forced to admit he still can't remember, but maybe they could do him a favor and let him know already.

(James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky for short. He's not too sure about that nickname, but James isn't much better, sounding almost too formal under the circumstances. Barnes is probably the least objectionable of the bunch, but he's not about to start introducing himself by his surname.)

When the questions begin to taper off, the doc -- Xavier, he learns -- frowning so hard his mouth's in danger of getting stuck that way, James calls an abrupt end to the examination. "So what's the verdict?"

Edited Date: 2012-06-04 12:48 am (UTC)

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Though Charles doesn't know any of these men particularly well, he doubts very much that they'd disagree with him were he to say none of them are used to failure. Perhaps it's a mark of arrogance, but Charles prefers to think of it as a mark of skill, their odd little team handpicked personally by Captain Rogers. He'd wanted the best for his friend, and he would've gotten it, too, were it not for outside interference.

"Steve, Tony," says Charles, calling the other men over before starting to avoid having to repeat himself.

"Based on the scans and my own examination, we were successful in removing the programming that triggered the initial incident. However -- and I'm afraid there is a however -- not only were we unable to ascertain what caused it, we've run into other complications. By all rights James should be fine. With the technology at our disposal, we were afforded such a degree of accuracy..." He sighs, setting down the datapadd he'd been holding. "His long term memories shouldn't have been affected. A few hours' loss could have been expected, but not this. There's no sign of trauma, damage... It's almost as though the memories themselves have been stolen. As much as I hate to say it, I suspect we are dealing with an external force, after all, and while unlikely, the evidence would point to two separate events. The programming wouldn't have done this, nor would have its removal."

He looks first to Barnes, then to Steve. "If you're both amenable, I'd like to keep James under observation for a few days to run further tests, but I believe we should alert the rest of the Council at first light on the off chance this amnesia proves widespread."

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I don't look at anyone.

Neither of the situations being presented are good. Either we did this to Bucky, or the island is doing this to God knows how many people who don't even know it yet.

"Consider the council alerted," I say. I'll handle it, make sure everyone knows, send out a PSA over the radio and make sure the IPD and IBI are notified.

And Captain Thrace. She'll need to know she's running things solo until this is resolved.

I can't say I'm grateful, but at least I'll be kept busy. I won't be able to dwell on it til later. And in the interim, of course. No one will be around for hours yet.

"And that's Buck- your call," I add, turning my attention to Bucky. "I would encourage you to work with Professor Xavier, as you've just been through a traumatic experience, even if you don't remember it. But no one is going to force you to."

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McCoy looks up from where he's finally managed to get some results out of the data they've been seeing -- even if the pattern isn't a good sign, given what it's done to the brain and how little he likes that. "If it's okay with you," he says, glancing to Bucky, "and you," he adds to Steve wryly. "I'd like to take some tissue samples. Blood, hair, doesn't matter, just to cover the bases and make sure there's no underlying medical cause driving this. Better safe than sorry," he figures.

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"Just so we're clear, 'under observation' is egghead for 'can't leave', right?" says James, scrubbing a hand over two days worth of stubble as he considers whether or not staying here's worth the hassle when it seems like no one has any more answers than he does. (External force? What the hell does that even mean?)

Fingers inching higher, exploring a face he won't even recognize in a mirror, James presses his forefinger and thumb on either side of the bridge of his nose after a few seconds of silence, briefly squeezing his eyes shut. He opens them again with a disgruntled sigh, hand falling down to the opposite shoulder. His gaze quickly lands on Tony.

"I want my arm. The... robot one. And some friggin' clothes. Give me that, and you boys can keep your science project for a couple more days. Then I'm outta here, answers or no answers."

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Maybe he should have tampered with the arm. If he set that EMP off in here, it'd wreck a lot of things. The lower levels would be blacked out, air conditioning out, it'd be a mess.

On the other hand, the doctors were proclaiming him not crazy but amnesiac, and Cap was right there, and so was the IPD office. They could taze him or try out McCoy's sedatives if they had to.

"Clothes... certainly, arm..." he looked around. "I'm inclined to say yes, guy's lopsided. Just don't abuse it."

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"Of course the answer is yes," I say firmly, fighting a deeper frown. I don't like the idea of drawing blood. I never have. Possibly this is a hold over from being under strict orders that nothing short of a Presidential okay could compel me to relinquish a sample, but it's just never sat well.

The question of whether or not to give Bucky his arm back is nothing short of an affront. I understand the hesitation, of course I do, but adding the humiliation of denying a man a limb on top of everything else he's going through- I can't abide it, not for a second.

"Any questions you have," I say to Bucky, "we'll try to answer. You're not a prisoner here, you're not at fault and no one wishes you harm. We're just... concerned."

Edited Date: 2012-06-04 03:50 am (UTC)

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"Yeah, I'm getting that," James replies, mouth twisting to the side. Figuring he can probably stand up, now, without anyone reaching for the drugs, he straightens, legs protesting loudly as they bear his weight for the first time in days. But on equal footing with the rest of them, he feels less exposed, more in control of his fate, though he suspects that control is token. He'll endure the pain.

Because there's not a doubt in his mind that they would've kept him here whether or not he agreed. This way just happens to be more civil. He'll have to hope that means it's better.

Attention resettling on Steve, James gives his apparent-best friend another look-over, searching for some spark of recognition, but finding none. The man's a stranger, same as everyone else in this room -- even himself. Given carte blanche, a number of questions dance across the tip of his tongue, but it's the last that James thinks will be the most telling. Chin up and shoulders back, his body seeming to relax from the rigidity of his posture, he holds Steve's gaze and asks, "What am I?"

Edited Date: 2012-06-04 04:34 am (UTC)

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Even if he can't remember, he's got to know, has to be realizing what his body's telling him- that he's trained. Possibly that he's dangerous.

"You're a soldier," I tell him.

"One of the best I've ever seen."

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A soldier. That feels about right, James thinks, the scrap of information coming to him as more of a confirmation than a revelation. He wonders if he shouldn't maybe bring that up, but quickly decides not to; he wouldn't have guessed through memory, but observation. The hyperawareness of his surroundings, the natural pull of his muscles, the trepidation in everyone's eyes...

Well, they wouldn't have tied him up if he'd been a postman.

"Must be," he replies, deciding to hazard a guess. "Can't imagine too many guys making you look like hamburger."

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I pause, lifting both eyebrows at Bucky, at the familiar swagger that's starting to seep in through the abating nerves.

"Don't get cocky, kid."

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