Who the hell am I (english version)

jaws of death

I immediately jolt awake, eyes wide open. A wave of nausea hits me, and I'm racked with a coughing fit. I lean over the edge of the bed, anticipating the need to vomit. A sharp pain shoots through my shoulder, causing me to flinch, but it quickly subsides into a dull throb. My forehead is drenched in sweat, and my hands are trembling. Another dream. When will this crap finally stop? Looking down at my shoulder, I notice the gunshot wound has been treated and stitched. The last thing I remember is that we were captured by S.H.I.E.L.D., and at some point, I must have passed out. I close my eyes again briefly, taking a few deep breaths until my racing heart starts to calm down and the nausea slowly fades away. Beside me, a monitor beeps intermittently, the intervals growing longer. My body must be stabilizing.

Wait a second. Where am I? Panic rises as I glance around, but all I see is a white curtain. Where are the others? What is Hydra doing to them? I slowly slide to the edge of the bed, only now noticing the IV in my arm. Carefully, I remove the needle and pull the blanket off of me. What is this place? I seriously doubt Hydra took care of my injuries and tucked me in afterward. Those bastards would have left me to bleed out or let the Winter Soldier finish the job. Bucky. The memories of recent events and my dream flash before my eyes. Was it really him? Did I just imagine it all? The rift inside me is a clear answer. It all happened, and now I carry a dangerous emotion within me: anger.

A chair sits beside the bed, with my clothes neatly folded on it. I stand and reach for the bundle of clothes. After getting dressed, I pause to listen for any sounds before slowly pulling the curtain aside and peering out. Observing my surroundings, I wonder if I'm underground. This room contains several hospital beds like the one I just woke up in. It's packed with various medical equipment, boxes of medication, antibiotics, and stacks of bandages. There's no one in sight. I edge closer to the door and enter a dimly lit hallway, some of the lights flickering or entirely burned out. With heightened alertness, I scan the area, but no one appears. I proceed cautiously down the corridor.

After what feels like forever, I finally hear Steve's voice cutting through the silence. It's coming from a side corridor, where a door stands ajar, spilling light into the dim hallway. My nerves spike as I approach, a shiver running down my spine. Who could he be talking to? I reach the door and poke my head around just enough to see inside, and the sight makes my breath catch. Are we dead? Because that's the only explanation I can think of for Nick Fury sitting at the table. I press my back flat against the wall beside the door, debating whether to slap myself just to check if I'm still alive. But Sam spares me the trouble as he steps out of the room. "You're finally awake," he notes with a smile and pulls me into a warm hug, which I immediately return. As we part, I give him a knowing look, and he understands what I mean. "I'm not entirely sure we're alive either, because how do you explain Fury sitting in there?" I ask skeptically as we enter the room.

I sit down at the table and notice that alongside Sam and Fury, Steve, Nat, Maria, and an unfamiliar man are present. Judging by his white coat, he might be a doctor. What the hell happened? Fury starts to fill me in on the events of the past few days, and with every sentence, my mouth grows drier. Spinal injury, broken sternum, shattered collarbone, perforated liver, severe headaches, and a collapsed lung—those are the injuries Fury sustained from the Winter Soldier's attack. "Your heart stopped; they opened you up," I point out, shaking my head. Can someone explain how this man is sitting in front of me? We visited his grave—this is beyond eerie. "Tetrodotoxin B," Fury explains, "slows the pulse to one beat per minute. It was developed to reduce stress, though that didn't quite work out." For stress? Where can I get a ton of that stuff? "Why didn't you trust us with this?" I ask accusingly. Why did he leave us in the dark? Why did he let us continue working for Hydra when he knew the truth? "It had to look like the hit was successful. No one hunts the dead, and I wasn't sure who I could trust," he replies, letting out a weary sigh. He feared that we could be part of it all, and didn't want to take any risks. I want to be mad at him for not telling us, for letting us believe we were working for the good side, but it was probably the safest decision. He's right—we can't trust anyone.