As his handler pulled away, the Soldier flinched, bracing for a hit. "Please..." He stayed laying flat on the bed, bound by conditioning to lay still, to not lash out at his handler or his guards. He was a tool. Tools didn't lash out. They were used, and they did without question, without thought.

"Steve... I think we should give him some space." Sam felt sick to his stomach. The shock had jolted something else out of the Soldier - something childlike and terrified. Sam had nieces and nephews, recognized the brainless terror of a nightmare. The Soldier's eyes locked on him, but didn't meet his gaze. It was the gaze of a soldier that had been tortured by the enemy and a child and Sam was torn between knowing that this man could kill him in an instant and wanting to help him.