The technician moved a lot. He has a name too. Maybe it was nerves. Most of the technicians afforded him the careful respect that being in the room with a weapon deserved. It wasn't respect. It was fear. They hadn't ever treated him like the handlers did. Never slapped him, like the older man did. He has a name. You know he has a name. You've heard it before. You have to remember it. No. That wasn't acceptable. He was a handler. A superior. He's probably dead. They're pretty quick to take out threats once they've identified them.
Bucky or James. Was he Bucky or James? James. Bucky's a war hero. You're a moron. Agent Barnes. He liked Agent Barnes. You're not an Agent. You're just James. Sergeant-- "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, one two five five seven zero three eight." Give him a hand, ladies and gents, he does remember something.
He tightened his hands into fists. "Agent Barnes." He preferred Agent Barnes. No, you don't. I don't. I like James. You like what I like. No. He had his own preferences. Weapons don't have preferences. Weapons don't like or think or feel. What was a name, anyway? What you give something when it dies, isn't that right?
"Thank you, sir," he said. He stood, and then he froze; no dismissal. Wasn't he supposed to be dismissed? Are you? Try just walking out. See what he does. I'll bet you it's nothing. But what the technician--names, genius, they all have names--Loki was saying was that he was supposed to give in to the conflicting thoughts. And you don't want to leave yet. You're just uncomfortable. You have more questions. Sit back down and ask them.
He settled back on the stool and looked at the remaining bottle of root beer. "What was I doing under faulty programming for so long? If I've had all I needed all along, why wasn't--" Wasn't it what? What you're looking for is why are you fixing me now. "Why wasn't I fixed before now?"