There were now two very solid concepts that were entirely at odds with themselves in his mind. The American soldier falling from the train, James Barnes; prisoner of war. And the weapon, no name; fist of HYDRA. That barely even covered the majority of it, but the concepts were becoming more and more realised and more and more at odds with each other the longer this went on. But this was apparently what was expected. What they wanted.
"So," he said. "They took me and made me a weapon. And you're trying to unmake me." It wasn't a very clear wording, or at least it didn't quite reflect what he understood of it. HYDRA had taken something damaged and patched it up. No. HYDRA took something incapacitated and butchered me. Stop. No, HYDRA had repaired him. Built him up to be strong and capable. Nigh unstoppable.
No. James. Stop it. This isn't a good thing, I-- Stop. "All of that work, and now you're undoing it." It wasn't work, it was torture. There hadn't been pain, yet, but the confusion-- Is a natural part of the process. You're sorting out real memory and total disconnect from significance. You've always known the name James Barnes, but it didn't have significance, so we let it rest. Like the kid.
"Who is the kid?" he said. He couldn't quite remember, but there had to have been a good reason not to stab the knife through his throat. Hadn't there been? "The.. the small one. Bony. Weak." There you go. That's the right kind of question.