Wrong. Why would he do that? It could be a black out, but his actions under the influence of programming were generally more logical and methodical rather than less. Where was he? Why was he here? A cursory check of his handguns revealed that they were still loaded: an odd choice if he were being held captive. Placing a weapon in his thigh holster and hiding another in the waistband of his jeans, he carefully made his way to the door. He didn't look quite as menacing as usual in a dark hoodie, faded jeans and worn leather work boots, but it was better to blend when you weren't sure of your environment. He watched the room for any signs of disturbance as he stepped out into the hallway.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Shield. Target. On instinct, his thumb quickly pulled back the hammer of his semiautomatic as he began to raise it. His brow furrowed. There is a picture in your pocket. The man in the picture is Steve Rogers. He is not the target. Don't make contact. No matter what anyone tells you, no matter what you think you know, it is not your job to hurt him. He calls you "Bucky." He knows you. Protect him. Disarm. A minute shake of his head as he uncocked the handgun and lowered it from Rogers' face, but not to his side.
"What are you doing here?" He demanded, voice low, his eyes darting anxiously around Rogers' face for some sign of a tell. "Where are we?"