Riptide's head still hurt. It had been hours since he had come to in that strange room with the restraints, but his brain still swam around in murk and mush. He knew his purpose—to comply with whatever his superiors told him to do.
But he couldn't shake the feeling something was wrong.
When he had first regained his senses, he hadn't cared that he didn't know who he was. But now... he just knew something was wrong. This wasn't how things were supposed to be. But there was that voice, always there, residing inside him, that was so much stronger than the one thirsting for information on himself. It always scattered the boy's half-thoughts before he could really get his bearings.
I stand in my apartment, hugging my...
Just as fast as the partial memory had arrived, it vanished without a trace, leaving only the part of him that demanded obedience to orders. Relief flooded the teen's system, even if he felt a little guilty about it. It seemed far easier to let the orders consume him. He didn't have to think or make decisions. He just had to do. It took away so much stress that Riptide didn't even know he had carried. The lull of blankness seemed so much more tantalizing than going off and doing... whatever he had been doing before HYDRA.
But that other part of his brain, the one that seemed to become bigger with each minute, only screamed at him louder that something was wrong.
It frustrated Riptide that he couldn't remember anything about his past. Not even a name came to him when he strained himself, although he did receive an intense feeling of déjà vu. At one point, moments after he woke up, he had felt so close to his past. He felt like it was staring at him in the face, but he couldn't articulate what the information meant. It was like having all the pieces, but not knowing what any of them were or how to put them together.
I've lost my memory before, he thought suddenly.
You're imagining things, the voice reminded him, while Riptide realized that he had no way of knowing what was true about him and what wasn't.
He wasn't sure how to feel about that.
He wasn't sure how to feel about anything.
"Again!" the voice of a booming man yelled, snapping the boy out of his daze.
Scratch that. He knew how he was supposed to feel towards orders.
Obedience.
The boy was standing in a dank room, with no windows or furniture besides a cold stone bench nearby. He was holding a sword, but not one that seemed familiar. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he had a vague sense that he used to handle swords quite often. But this one appeared foreign to Riptide's new eyes.
The boy's opponent stood on the opposite side of the room, wearing an expression about as far away from a smile as you could get. Riptide didn't know who he was—he had never surrendered his name. Then again, the teen didn't even know his own, and had no means of finding out. It bothered him less than it probably should have for someone else in his situation, but just enough to create an unending and persistent itch in his brain.
Riptide gave a nod to the man standing behind the thick pane of glass to his right. Several other people were in that room too—with clipboards, monitors, and various other objects that made the boy feel like a class experiment for kids to goggle at.
It made him uncomfortable—but only slightly. It was like he was underwater, only half-comprehending and feeling things around him. Clarity only came when he was given an order.
Again!
Riptide squared his shoulders, and hefted the iron metal sword up. The weight of it wasn't quite right, and the handle didn't fit as snugly as it should've. He had stared at it in confusion when they first gave it to him, but he couldn't bring himself to ask them anything. He wasn't sure if he could physically ask.
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