Steve Rogers

The first thing that registers is the pain. The second, the coppery taste of blood. The third, the firm, unrelenting pressure of cold metal bearing down on half of his limbs. It's the last that finally startles him awake, a grunt pushing through his dry throat as his eyes flutter open and he takes in the strange scene with a confusion that runs right past fear and straight to anger.

"Wh-- You," he chokes out when he realizes just who is holding him down instead of what, straining against red hands. "Get-- Get off of me, you son of a bitch."