He was still stuck on the fact that he had a name, that someone could refer to him as something that might have emotion to it rather than barking his designation. He wasn't even referred to by the code name that the Soviet's had given him, that was for the outside world. His bestowed a sense of identity on him, scraping together nothing to pile into equally nothing. His memories were gone, stripped away as easily as they had built up his skills and reputation.

He hung his head over his own bound arms, straining against the metal. He rocked a bit, his metal prosthetic grinding against the reinforced steel of his restraints. He had a name; he was James Buchanan Barnes also known as 'Bucky' by those close to him. He was a man, a man trapped inside of a weapon. "I feel... cold," he finally uttered. It wasn't just the temperature either he realized; something was cold inside of him, eating him up, threatening to swallow him down. It was cold in his head.

Slowly, he lifted his head, the screen of dark hair falling back against his cheeks as he stared at her. His chest heaved with an effort to breathe passed the lump in his throat and chest. He could ask any question he wanted? Only one question came to mind, the only question he was allowed to ask. "What's my mission object?"