She opened her eyes, slowly, the familiar cold fading away. Her mind was inexplicably buzzing, trying to clear the confusion from her head to give her back the uncanny sharpness and awareness she tended to have. The chill hadn't gone away, only just moving away from her head as she inhaled a wet, shallow breath.

"Is she awake?" a voice murmured, drifting through her mind like a child's lost balloon. Someone in white glanced over at her, face quizzical. She blinked methodically, pushing herself to sit up. Both men edged back slightly, out of precaution. She was a weapon. It made sense for them to be afraid. She couldn't remember anything—except she was a weapon, she had to obey, and that she shouldn't hurt anyone with the red symbol on their arm. One of the men, short, nervous, probably hadn't seen her before, looked down at a clipboard with some paper on it.

"W-What is your name?" he questioned unsteadily. She thought for a moment, eyebrows furrowed together. There was a clean, gray slate. "I don't know," she stated, noticing the unfamiliar twang of her voice. An accent. It didn't matter. Accents came from many things. Perhaps she had suffered a neurological injury. That could cause accents. The man nodded, made a quick mark with a pen she hadn't seen before, and looked at the next question.

"How do you feel?" he questioned. She cocked her head to the side. What was "feel?" She felt like she should've known what it meant, but alas, she didn't. "I don't know," she responded, and began looking at her surroundings. Everything was bare, only brick walls with faded paint. Yellow. In the lighter shades, but she knew that was from the wear of the building. It was old, older than she was. How old was she? The person figured she was young, as her bones only ached from the cold and her organs felt perfectly functional, if not slowed from being frozen. She assumed there was a door, behind her, perhaps. But what use would a door be?

"Archangel!" The man's yelling snapped her back into focus. She blinked at him calmly, waiting for the next question.

"Where did you grow up?" he questioned, voice more steady. A page flashed in front of her, a sign on the side of the road. She looked away, at the floor, at nothing, then back at him. Another flash; two boys, one oddly taller than the other, both with blue eyes and a set jaw. It looked odd on the shorter of them, but not misplaced. They were... Nice. They'd been nice to her. People normally weren't nice to her.

"Brooklyn," she answered, somewhat triumphantly. Both men's expressions faltered, and somehow she knew she had answered wrong. The man started scribbling away wildly, whispering something to the other man. "We have to wipe her," he affirmed after a moment, and a feeling of dread crept up in her. Wiping wasn't pleasant, but she distantly remembered someone saying it was necessary. Unfamiliar people grabbed her arms harshly, she knew it would leave bruises, but they would disappear soon enough. The gloved, unforgiving hands guided her to the chair- and she could already feel the cold metal on her back, the fiery pain in her entire body, the screams that could shatter bulbs. But she still stayed still when they shoved her in the chair.

One of the men picked up a black object, put it near her mouth. She opened up somewhat robotically, closed it as soon as it was secure. The cold metal on her near revealed back sent thrills up her spine, which elicited a quiet breath through her nostrils. Silence was necessary. Breathing was noisy, no matter what she did, unfortunately.

She laid back, tensing as the thing slipped onto her head. "Begin."

When it was over, every answer to the questions was, "I don't know." Except for the very last.

"What are you?"

"A weapon."
------
"Archangel?"

"готовы соблюдать."

A/N:
Oh pretty please, don't hate me.
This was an introduction, if you will.

EDITED 10/2/16