The Captain's eyes flutter, minutely, at the grip on his beard. It sends warring shots through him: pinprick-sharp fear, like he's been yanked around, punished, with hands on his face, tugging, forcing, before. And something… else. Something he can't identify as want. As like. That a touch like that, from the right person, could be good.

Here and now, though, those lids barely move before his eyes focus on the Soldier as he accuses him of — of what? He doesn't even know what his own face looks like, knows he has hair along his jaw only because sometimes it's scratchy or dirty or, like now, someone uses it to grab him, force his gaze. It is a liability, but maybe one he assumes they want him to have? Maybe they need it to force his gaze. Why else would he have it?

His brow knits, his mind a still jumble after the electrical storm of the chair, and then the words suddenly tumble out: "I killed a handler. He had a razor."

He isn't sure how he knows that. Can't really remember it, except as a distant, echoing scream, the clatter of something metal hitting the hard, tiled floor. The wrench in his arm when he'd broken one of the restraints — and his own ulna, in two places. They'd had to… to shoot him? With tranquilizers. Mostly. Some bullets. He thinks.

He's supposed to be HYDRA's greatest weapon. He is also hard to control. This is compromise, he thinks. And it makes them unhappy. It makes them look weak. He makes them look weak, when he looks like this.

His eyes flick down to the metal wrist and forearm. "Maybe that's why you're here."

The tone is too flat for it to be a dare. His eyes are too dull, too hollowed out. And yet.