The flash of upright palms is a gesture of surrender. He's seen it before, he recognizes it as a victim's survival tactic. Occasionally it's genuine, a plea to be spared. Occasionally it's a trick, meant to lull an attacker until the victim can create an attack of opportunity themselves. He's been on the receiving end of it both ways, and each time ended the same: the victim dead, and him slipping away from the scene without a fingerprint or a trace left behind.

The words that come out aren't please, though. There is no spare me nor any equivalent; it's the second thing that doesn't track with his experience, the second thing that tugs at a thread in his mind unrelated to any mission he's attended or any training he's been put through.

Bucky, he says, and something visceral in his core lights up at the name. His brow knits automatically, maybe the first expression he's worn on his face other than pain or concentration in a decade. Confusion may be the first emotion he's experienced that he wasn't programmed to in twice as long. More than that, maybe.

I know this face.

This is a test. It must be. There are tests often, reinforcements of behavior meant to make sure he isn't slipping or losing his grasp. He ran away once back in the seventies, they got too complacent and he went too long without being reset. Bolted, they tracked him down, and now periodically he's given tests to pass or be corrected.

Burning fear, anger, the desire to lash out — all of it's directed at Steve.

"I don't know who that is," he snaps, and that's all the warning Steve gets before he's launching forward like a great cat, aiming for lethal knife points in Steve's abdomen.