-Longing.

The memories never stayed for long, but he held on to them while he could.

Sitting on the fire escape at sunrise. A flash of blonde hair. Steve's smile.

- Rusted.

The handle crumbling beneath his fingers. Wheels squeaking on a cold floor. Walls closing in on him.

-Seventeen.

Brooklyn. 1933. Steve was sick again. He worried.

-Daybreak.

Waking up to a new city every day only to find he was slipping farther away. "You are to be the new fist of Hydra."

-Furnace.

Searing waves of heat hitting him over and over again. Finding their way into his head. So this is what hell feels like.

-Nine.

Months had passed but he still remembered. It's not easy to forget. He wished it was.

-Benign.

Kind. Warmhearted. Good-natured. Friendly. Compassionate. But he was none of these things.

-Homecoming.

"This isn't a back-alley, Steve, it's war." As the train pulled away from the station he had the strangest feeling that he was never coming back.

-One.

The man on the bridge. You know me.

-Freight Car.

He was falling. Always falling. Watching Steve's face get smaller and smaller. Snow and trees were rising up around him, and a single thought filled his mind. Thank god it's me and not you.

Soldat?

Ready to comply.