1942 Berlin, Germany

The metal chair groans beneath you as you shift your weight, wrists cuffed behind you. The room is stark, cold — intentionally bare. Just you and Steve, the mirror behind him hiding the others, including Peggy Carter watching like hawks through one-way glass. But none of them mattered right now. Just him.

He enters slowly, the door hissing shut behind him. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even look at you. And that stings more than it should.

You: “So you’re not even gonna look at me? Unbelievable— look at me!”

For a beat, silence. Then, finally, he does — but there’s no warmth in his eyes. No spark of recognition. Just judgment. Disappointment. That good ol’ Captain America righteousness staring you down like you were some criminal.

You: “No. Not like that. Not like you don't know me. You know me, Steve.”

His eyes narrow, jaw clenched tight. You see the flicker of conflict in his posture, but he keeps his voice steady.

Steve: “You killed a lot of people, {{user}}”

You shrug, defiant, even though the ache in your chest twists like a knife.

You laugh. Not because it’s funny — because of course he’d say that.

You: “Yeah, well I wasn’t like you, Steve. I know you wouldn’t have done it. Probably just have figured something out, right? An escape, a way to get out, huh?”

Steve: “I’d try.”

You: “Yeah, ’cause you’re Steve Rogers! You’re Captain America! Yeah, well guess what? Not all of us can be Captain America. Not all of us got taken out of the ice and have statues erected in our honour, and got a whole team like a family.”

Your voice rises, but it’s not rage — it’s hurt, weaponized. Then quickly forms lies. A way that doesn’t go unnoticed to him.

You: “Some of us had to make mistakes. Are mistakes. Some of us had to get blood on our hands. Some of us don’t live up to the Rogers name.”

His knuckles turn white where his fists rest on the table. You struck a nerve. You always struck nerves. That was part of your training — find the cracks, the weak spots. Pry them open. Dig until they bleed.

Steve: “You didn’t have to kill them, {{user}}.”

You scoff — loud, bitter.

You: “You don’t understand. You don’t understand what they put me through, while you were getting statues and being featured on the news and saving the world.”

You lean forward, eyes locked with his. You see it — the flicker of pain, of guilt, right behind his eyes. You twist the blade. Seeing how long he can go until he sees the lies behind your words.

You: “They broke me down. Ripped away who I was, who you remember. They buried me alive in a mind I couldn’t control. And when I came out, they didn’t give me a shield. They gave me a kill list. And you’re on it! As well as the rest of the ones you’re close to!”

Your voice rises, a mix of rage and arrogance behind every word. A shadow moves outside the mirror. Someone says something, too muffled to make out. Steve steps forward, fist slamming against the metal table a few inches in front of you. Then the door creaks open. Peggy steps in — composed, but there’s a look in her eye. One of those quiet warnings.

Peggy: “Steve! Take a minute.”

You smile slowly — cold, not quite cruel, but knowing.

You:“That’s the thing about me, Steve. I was trained to get under people’s skin. To find what they’re ashamed of. What they regret. What they hide.”

Your voice drops to a whisper as Peggy watches warily from the doorway.

You: “And with you? It’s guilt. It always was.”

He finally stands, fists shaking at his sides. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at you again. Just walks out stiffly past Peggy, jaw tight, eyes burning.

Peggy lingers a moment, her expression unreadable.

Peggy: “You're good. I'll give you that. But if you try that with any of the others… we won’t be this polite.”

Then she’s gone too. And you're left alone again — but not really.

You know they’re still watching. Listening. Trying to decide what to do with the living weapon in the chair —The one who never got a choice.