the fire in my heart (will burn me to the ground)

by Child-OTKW

When Shiro received his draft notice, he felt like his world was crumbling. Forced to leave behind his best friend and join the army, his life was irreversibly changed when he underwent an experimental procedure to create the perfect soldier. Now as Captain America, with Keith beside him, he found himself neck-deep in a war orchestrated by a shadow organisation known only as GALRA.

1. Chapter 1

Okay, haha, this'll be fun I guess. I know, I know, there are two other massive stories I should be working on right now - but this has honestly been on my computer since November and I need it to do something other than sit there gathering dust. Otherwise I'd probably never post the bugger.

So, if you couldn't tell from the summary, this is an MCU/Comics inspired story. I saw a few pictures floating around the Voltron fandom wayback when that had the Paladins as the Avengers and thought it was adorable. And in all the depictions I've seen of the whole team, Shiro is generally Cap - which, ya know, kinda makes sense. And I've seen Keith drawn as the 'Black Widow' of the team, and while I fully agree Keith is a kickass BW, my brain booked a ticket on the angst train and made a connection that birthed this.

So, obvs in Marvel, Steve and Bucky are damn close, and have the nasty tendency to be self-sacrificing idiots (almost as bad as 616 Tony and Steve). And I was like "huh, Keith and Shiro are bit like that."

So my brain took that idea and made this. I don't know why, I just really liked the idea of Shiro being Captain America and Keith being his rebellious, snarky sidekick (a.k.a. Bucky Barnes). And I know, some of you will probably be like "But Shiro has the metal arm and the traumatic year of torture and his head is always being messed up" etc. etc.

But if you bear with me. I assure you, it will all (hopefully!) work out by the end.

There will be some major differences between the two plots (for reasons!) in particular regarding how things progress and the background of the characters, but I hope it's still interesting enough for you guys.

This story is a gift to arahir - if you don't know her yet, I highly recommend reading her works on AO3. She's amazing!

WARNING: There is heavy racist themes in this story, as well as issues of homophobia. This is to stay true to the time period that the story is based in.

---

The frigid air pierced through his thin clothes, chilling him to the bone. The sweat that he'd built up at the factory had long turned cold, now making his movements feel sluggish and his hands clammy.

He should get inside, before he came down with something. The last problem they needed was paying off medical bills on top of everything else.

But.

He couldn't.

The key was in his hand, the door directly in front of him. It was easy. He'd done it a thousand times before. The only thing standing between him and the marginally warmer apartment was the Goddamn lock.

The lock – and the small, innocuous slip of paper in his pocket that seemed to burn intensely whenever his thoughts strayed to it.

Shiro swallowed past the lump in his throat. His fingers writhed around the key as he thought over what he was going to say.

Of how he could possibly explain this whole mess.

The shock had worn off hours ago for him, maybe because on some level, he'd always suspected that this moment would come. Ever since that bleak, horrible day in December he'd felt the slowly tightening noose around his neck, digging into his skin with aching tenderness. And as more and more men were dragged off to fight, Shiro had been counting down the days in the back of his mind.

He'd known it was coming. But now that it was happening, now that the realisation of what awaited him was finally settling in his head, he found it difficult to breathe.

And Keith.

Christ, how was he even supposed to tell his best friend that Shiro was going to –

There was a click, and the door swung open with a butchered creak, so abrupt that Shiro jumped guiltily at being caught dawdling on the rickety staircase like a miserable dog.

Keith stared up at him from the other side, one eyebrow arched just enough to convey how unimpressed he was. There was a smudge of grease on his cheek, and he was still in his uniform. He'd only just gotten home, then.

"Hey." Shiro greeted softly, hoping there was nothing on his face or in his voice that tipped Keith off.

His friend's frown deepened, narrowed eyes scanning him swiftly from the toes of his muddy boots to the tips of his filthy hair.

And for a moment Shiro wondered if Keith already knew despite him not even saying anything. That maybe he could see the paper through the fabric of Shiro's pants and recognise it for the threat it was. That any moment Shiro was going to see those walls rise in his eyes and shut him out to protect that fragile, perfect heart.

Or maybe Keith only knew something was wrong, not what.

Honestly, Shiro wouldn't even be surprised if he did though.

Keith had always been able to know what Shiro was thinking, from their very first meeting years ago. It was remarkable how gifted Keith actually was at reading complete strangers. One glance and he had them pinned and sorted into his little boxes, and he was rarely ever wrong.

More often than not, it was Keith's quick judgement that got them out of danger, identifying who they could trust and who they couldn't. Shiro had lost count of how many times Keith had saved them so much trouble simply by following his instincts.

And this innate skill only grew sharper the longer Keith knew someone – which sadly, at this point, was only Shiro.

There was only one thing he had managed to keep hidden away from Keith's sharp eyes, and it was the one thing Shiro longed to share with him the most.

But he never would. Because Keith didn't need Shiro's inclinations affecting his life.

"You're late."

Shiro blinked, his thoughts slipping away as he looked at Keith. The relief he felt over the other not knowing barely had time to register, because the glint in those dark eyes told him Keith was already suspicious.

He forced out a short laugh, praying it sounded halfway to normal. "Yeah, sorry about that. I got caught up at the factory." He grinned sheepishly, and Keith's shoulders loosened the tiniest amount. His face cleared, the fierce pull of his eyebrows melting into something exasperatedly fond.

"Get in here, you idiot," Keith ordered with a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes. He turned and moved further inside, leaving the door wide open.

Shiro happily complied, eager to get out of the chill and eat something.

He slipped off his work coat with a groan and kicked the door shut with enough force to wedge it into place. He hung his coat up on one of the flimsy hooks that unevenly lined the space of the entry hall - if a one metre stretch of wall could be counted as such.

"How was work?" He asked as he leaned his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes, taking a minute to just listen to Keith as he puttered around.

"Alright. I finally figured out what was wrong with the DeSoto."

"Oh yeah?"

He smiled when he heard Keith snort abrasively. "Some people's stupidity isn't even worth mentioning. Trust me."

Shiro chuckled at the scornful tone before straightening and cracking his neck. "I'll take your word for it."

"What about you, the factory still good?" Keith's voice sounded from down the hall now, muffled in a way that told Shiro he was in the kitchen. He started to head that way, dutifully ignoring how heavy his pocket felt with each step.

"It was fine. Nothing much happened."

The slight rustling sounds stopped, and Shiro ducked his head with a grimace. Keith must have heard the slight strain in his voice.

While normally the knowledge that Keith was paying such close attention to him might have set his heart singing, right now it only made the pit in his stomach gape wider.

Couldn't he have one last ordinary day? Couldn't he pretend for one more night that everything in their lives was blissfully simple?

Everything would change the second he told Keith, and Shiro hated it. He hated the very idea of upsetting the careful balance they had painstakingly built.

Everything was going to be ruined.

The only thing that soothed the frantic energy bubbling in him was that Keith was still eighteen. He had another year at most, so long as the fighting didn't get so bad that they started going for younger recruits.

Keith would be safe. Shiro held onto that fact viciously.

But even that was a cold comfort.

Because it did nothing to change the fact that in less than a month Shiro would be gone, and Keith would have to fend for himself in a world that was already filled with mistrust and violence. A world that took one look at them and sneered.

It was already hard enough now making ends meet. Without him here to carry some of the weight…

They'd have to sell the apartment, their home, and get Keith something more affordable on a one-person salary. Or else they'd have to find him a place with someone else; which due to the past month would be a herculean task.

The idea of Keith living with a stranger, someone who had no idea how to talk with him or make him smile, had Shiro torn between laughing hysterically and gritting his teeth.

But it was better than the alternative, which was the streets. And while Shiro was sure Keith could take care of himself if that ever happened, a part of him wailed at the thought of his best friend falling to that level.

"Shiro?"

He bit his lip and steeled himself. The longer he took to do this, the more time they wasted - time they could be using to help Keith and prepare him for when Shiro left.

"Keith. Can you come here a sec? There's something we need to talk about."

He could taste the suspicion rising in Keith when he spoke, "What's wrong?"

Shiro heard the clatter of pans being put down, and the soft sound of Keith padding closer. He closed his eyes again, pulled the little slip from his pocket, and gripped it limply in both of his worn hands - held out like a poisoned offering.

It hurt. Because he heard the exact moment Keith realised what he had.

The other's breath choked.

"Keith -"

"No."

"Keith, just-"

"No."

Shiro wanted to cry. He knew - God did he know - what this meant to his friend.

He remembered how terrible Keith's life had been those months after his father had been drafted - there one day, gone the next, and after the attack on Pearl Harbour, a simple form turning up with the words "Deeply regret to inform you…" cutting like a knife - and now Shiro was following the same path.

"I -"

Keith turned away from him, more like an aborted twist, and Shiro felt something in his chest give way at the tiny movement.

"Keith. Keith, stop. Just -" Having had enough, he closed the distance between them with two determined strides. The draft notice he left to flutter to the uneven wooden floor. His hands found their place on the younger man's shoulders and dug in.

"I'm going to be fine." The assurance fell from his lips without conscious thought. He just wanted to get that expression off Keith's face. But the second he said it Shiro knew he'd only made things worse.

Keith's arms snapped up in between his and out, cruelly tearing himself free from Shiro's hold. "Don't." He spat, voice trembling and rough. "Don't you dare."

"I'm sorry." Shiro rushed to say, hands hanging between them uselessly. "I'm so sorry, Keith. Please." He didn't know what he was asking for - forgiveness? Compassion, maybe? Sympathy? - but he was desperate for it.

Keith's eyes, so dark and blue they looked like gems, latched onto him with an urgency Shiro had never seen before. It was like he was trying to commit everything to memory.

Like he was carving, branding Shiro's face onto the back of his mind. Like this would be the last time they ever saw each other, and he couldn't bear the thought of forgetting anything.

"Keith…"

His friend took a shuddering breath, then the fire in him spluttered and died. Keith approached him, cautious and uncertain in a way he had not been with Shiro since the beginning. His arms wrapped around him and squeezed.

Shiro instantly sagged at the touch, his own hands coming up and crushing the other to his chest. A litany of apologies burst out of him suddenly, tripping over each other until they were incomprehensible.

Through it all, Keith clung to him, fingers burrowing into his back.

Minutes went by and Shiro finally fell silent. His body unravelled and he let himself greedily enjoy the sensation of Keith pressed up against him. He soaked up the warmth emitting from the shorter man like a flower did sunlight.

Keith had always been like that to him. Ever since the younger had tackled a boy who'd been bullying Shiro, years ago in some dirty alley. He had come from nowhere, bright and forceful like the sun, and Shiro had been captivated.

Keith. He was impossible to ignore or miss. And you either burned yourself on his flames or flourished under his gentle attention.

Shiro's greatest fear had always been losing this - his uncensored access to Keith. To not be able to see him, talk to him, to laugh and smile and just exist near him.

And now it was coming to pass.

"What are we going to do?" Keith's quiet inquiry broke through his thoughts, and his arms resisted for the briefest of moments when Shiro went to pull them apart.

"We're going to do what we always do. We're going to survive."

Keith looked down and away, and Shiro could see the struggle so plainly displayed on his face. He wanted nothing more than to smooth out the slight furrow between the other's brows. To rub his thumb against the firm press of Keith's lips until they were no longer a thin white line.

"Hey," he whispered, but it was enough to draw Keith's eyes back to him. He smiled. "We'll figure this out. You're going to be just fine."

Keith didn't even attempt to hide what he thought of that. The look on his face was hard and accusing.

It's not me I'm worried about.

OoO

He was right. Everything changed after that day.

And Shiro did hate it.

To an outsider, it would look like nothing was different. But it was. It was.

Keith went about his days as he'd done before, following the same routine he'd had since early December. He went to work, came home covered in grease and oil, and cooked dinner if Shiro was still out.

He told him about his day at the shop, complained about idiotic customers that didn't know the front end of their car from the back, and he never failed to ask after Shiro.

But there was a wariness to his movements that hadn't been there before. He was more withdrawn - sullen or distant or melancholy depending on the hour.

It was eerily similar to how he'd acted weeks after his father had died.

And Shiro could only watch with a clenched jaw as his friend - oldest, closest, best, but never anything more than that - pulled away from him. Like dragging this out would somehow make what Keith was doing less obvious, or make the ache easier to bear.

Where things had been - not perfect, but good before, now they were strained and raw, and Shiro didn't know how to stop what was hurting them.

This wasn't something he could protect Keith from, and a small spark of bitterness in the back of his mind liked to remind him that it'd always been Shiro who needed Keith more than the other needed him. It'd always been Shiro following Keith around, helplessly, happily pulled along in the other's gravity.

Shiro wasn't essential to Keith's world. He wasn't required for Keith to lead a good life.

Whereas Shiro felt like he couldn't breathe without Keith by his side.

It's been a horrible day when he had realised just how little Keith needed him.

He wanted nothing more than to address this rift between them, but whenever he tried the words stuck in his throat and threatened to choke him. And Keith, he got this look in his eyes whenever anything regarding the war was brought up. Something angry. Dark and ferocious.

Contemplative.

So instead of pushing, instead of facing this, Shiro turned his focus onto other things - things he could, at least, fix.

He looked at their money, and places Keith could live while Shiro was away. He looked at prices and odd-jobs around the area that Keith could pick up for extra pay. He looked at anything that might prove useful in keeping Keith afloat.

While he was doing that Shiro also started changing their budget to factor in his diminished salary. Since military wage weren't ideal, Keith would have to be careful with what little he made. Even though, as far as Shiro was concerned, most of what he made would be given straight to Keith anyway.

Every small bit could mean the difference between Keith making rent or being cast out onto the streets.

His time that wasn't solely dedicated to ensuring that Keith would be fine without him was split between picking up as many shifts at the factory as he could - trying to squeeze every last opportunity for money - and preparing to be sent to Camp McCoy for his training.

More often than not he returned home exhausted and stretched thin, shoulders drooping and eyes unable to stay open. Most days he barely had time to change clothes before he was collapsing in his bed and succumbing to the sweet call of sleep.

It was worth it though. To keep Keith safe. He believed that with all his might.

The weeks flew by, melding together until Shiro had to hang a calendar above his bed to cross the days off.

He hated how tired he was lately, and knew it'd likely be a long time until he was able to get a good night's sleep again.

He hated how the shifty side-glances he received were growing more and more prominent, even from neighbours and friends that had known him for years.

He hated that he'd been drafted at all.

But mostly he hated how little time he had to spend with Keith.

That, more than anything, made him want to scream.

OoO

The day he was set to leave for Camp McCoy came too swiftly.

It was a cold morning, and everyone was bundled in their warmest clothes to try and combat the chill.

The area was stuffed full of people. All of them saying goodbye to their families and friends. For some of them, Shiro knew it might well be the last time they saw their loved ones.

He cast his eyes around.

Whole families surrounded him.

There were teary-faced mothers and weary looking fathers. There were stricken wives and unknowing children. Siblings embracing siblings.

All of them gathered in their little corners of the world.

To his left, Keith shifted uncomfortably.

The slight pang in Shiro's chest evaporated. His dim thoughts of his own parents - dead, but so loving and kind - were washed away.

He might not have a big family here to see him off, but he had Keith. And for so long Keith'd been more than enough.

Shiro dropped his bag between his boots, tilting his head to grin down at his friend in what he hoped was an encouraging way. "You'll be alright while I'm gone, right?" He asked, hesitant and soft. Things were still odd between them, since he had made hardly any progress mending their friendship.

And now they were out of time.

Keith mustered the strength to give him a half-smile, though the effort almost seemed to pain him. "I'll survive."

His eyes swept behind Shiro to the number of other little clusters of people. Determination settled in Keith's expression. "I'll see you soon. Stay safe, okay?"

Shiro nodded, "I'll try my best." He said, and that was all he could give Keith no matter how he wished otherwise. But he couldn't risk saying anything else, because Keith remembered promises and Shiro'd never want to hurt him like that if he failed to keep his word.

He wasn't naive enough to make such promises, and Keith wasn't naive enough to ask.

Keith swallowed thickly, his head dipping in understanding. "Good luck, Takashi."

Shiro laughed, the stone lodged in his throat making the noise wobble tellingly. It'd been so long since anyone had called him by his proper name. The sound of it on Keith's lips always had his heart flipping. "Thanks. Stay out of trouble."

Keith snorted - because they both knew how trouble tended to find Keith no matter what he did - and the knot in Shiro's stomach unwound a little at the easy flow between them returning. "I'll try my best." He echoed, then held out his hand.

Shiro clasped it, and because this could be the last time they saw each other, he reeled Keith in and hugged him tightly.

His eyes prickled.

"I'll miss you." He told him, low and harsh and adamant. Because Keith needed to know without a shadow of a doubt that Shiro cared about him so much.

Even if he couldn't say the actual words.

Maybe one day…

But not today. For now, Shiro let them sink back down to that private section of his heart.

Keith's shoulders shook lightly as he nodded stiffly into Shiro's throat. "I'll miss you too. Make me proud."

They separated, and Shiro's hand ruffled Keith's hair one more time before he stooped to pick up his bag and headed towards the bus.

Each step away from Keith felt like a punch to the gut.

He chose a window seat, directly across from where Keith was standing alone, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket and an old, discoloured scarf now wrapped more around his lower face than his neck.

Shiro placed his hand on the window, ignoring how freezing the glass was to touch.

One of Keith's slim, gloved hands rose in response and waved. Even from this distance Shiro could make out the way the other's eyes crinkled with that familiar smirk.

Regardless of what happened, Shiro prayed that they would get the chance to see each other again.

OoO

Basic was a special kind of hell.

They were hustled off the bus before it'd even come to a stop and immediately put through another round of torturous bodily inspections that left his skin itching, and reinforced his appreciation for even the smallest scrap of clothing.

The phantom weight of the doctor's eyes still made him queasy.

But compared to what came after, Shiro would happily go back.

Their heads were shaved. Their belongings were confiscated. They were stripped of everything, with even their names being replaced with numbers.

It was demoralising and humiliating, watching as anything that made them who they were was stolen.

The other soldiers - ones who'd been in training for longer, some who'd already seen and experienced war - were cruel and seemed to take great pleasure in tormenting them whenever the opportunity arose.

Even Shiro, who had, by necessity, developed a thick skin over the years felt his confidence being chipped down.

It was like they couldn't even breathe without being torn to shreds.

His first night there was spent in a daze of half-awareness, half-paranoia, where Shiro was too tense to sleep.

The bed was lumpy, the sounds and smells were all foreign, and the unease roiling inside him made it impossible to close his eyes for longer than a heartbeat.

Shiro ended up burying his head under his pillow to tune out the whimpers and soft sobs he could hear coming from some of the others.

It didn't get better the next day.

They were woken before five to the harsh bellow of the drill instructor, a curt, no-nonsense man called Hendrick, who quickly destroyed whatever fleeting remnants of self-worth they still had.

The sun hadn't even crested the trees when they scurried to get ready in their exercise clothes, shovelled breakfast down their throats, and were being forced out into the winter's crisp morning air and taken on a ten-mile hike.

It was this hike that set the precedent for Shiro's entire time at training.

The ground was uneven and rocky and took all measures of concentration to navigate without falling. Some sections of the trek were so steep that the lot of them were crawling on their hands and knees more than they were running.

And through it all, Hendrick jogged alongside them, chant booming from his mouth, eyes hunting for the slightest sign of weakness and pouncing on it with brutal efficiency.

Shiro's blood was on fire. Each step had his legs screeching in pain and his lungs seizing. It was torture.

The entire run was only interrupted by the occasional sound of someone heaving - of their breakfast and bile splatting on the ground - or of Hendrick's voice cracking like a whip at whichever unfortunate soul caught his attention.

By the time they'd stumbled back into camp Shiro's body was trembling from the cold and the freezing sweat and the pain in his muscles.

With barely any time to recover, they were put to work on the obstacle courses where mud and rope burns became their new best friends.

By the end of dinner, Shiro - with his brown smudged skin and red-rimmed eyes - could do nothing more than sink into his bed with a groan. His body ached, deep and throbbing like he'd never experienced before.

OoO

That night as he lay awake, listening to the noises around him once again, he was hit with the overwhelming desire to see Keith.

His eyes stung as he squeezed them shut, forcing the tears back.

When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed of their small apartment and Keith's smile.

In the days that followed he learned about weapons. How to shoot and maintain his equipment.

He learned basic first-aid and engineering, as well as strategy and mission coordination.

He learned how to take orders, and how to shut his mouth and swallow his opinions.

Anything and everything they taught him he absorbed like a sponge. Because out there, out on the fronts, these things could just be what end up saving his life.

For a high school dropout, the work was surprisingly easy, and Shiro was viciously proud at the fact that he wasn't stupid just because he'd failed to remain in school.

He had a knack for almost everything they put in front of him, and what he didn't instinctively get, he was quickly taught.

OoO

He always, always dreamed of Keith.

OoO

But as time began to blur together, even the tiny flame in him started to wane. In the wake of his instructors' training Shiro was drained, mentally and physically. By the end of the first week, he just wanted to go home.

It wasn't just the training though.

Hardly anyone spoke to him, and those that did never seemed interested in having him around for longer than a few minutes. And normally he'd be fine with that. Shiro had never been particularly social before all of this, and the attitudes of some of the other men made him glad for the distance between them.

On occasion though, when the night was still and the quiet devastating, Shiro wished that he had someone he could talk to. Someone to turn to and share a joke with. Someone like Keith, whose silent presence was the most comforting force Shiro had ever encountered.

Almost all of his fellow privates had fallen into unsteady friendships at this point, and during their limited downtime, Shiro often overheard their chats.

He learned a lot by simply sitting there and listening to the hushed stories and whispered recollections of another life. It made the pinprick of longing in him swell each time.

No one ever asked him where he came from, or who he had waiting for him at home.

By the end of the second week, Shiro had settled into a strange sort of beaten acceptance that this was his life now.

He threw himself into his training, if only to ignore the loneliness that was creeping in on him. Being surrounded by people, yet being so utterly isolated was doing something to his head. The physical activities, while exhausting, were the only time Shiro didn't have to think.

He wasn't happy. He could never be happy in such a bleak place. But he was content enough to get through the days.

The instructors seemed pleased with him at the very least; their tendency to berate transforming into begrudging praise once in a while as he conquered task after task. The shift in their attitudes was gradual but there, and Shiro, to his own surprise, found himself excelling more and more as the days dragged on.

That should have been his first warning, but for some reason the bullying still took him by surprise.

OoO

It was nothing more than mutterings to begin with, coupled with the rare snide remark or heated glare, but Shiro was so used to that reception that he continued without letting it bother him. Keith and he had spent months suffering under the change in the country's perceptions towards people like them.

So, like Keith always urged but never practised, Shiro shrugged it off.

He should have known that would only make the situation fester.

Shiro was well aware that he was one of the few Japanese-Americans in the camp. He'd acknowledged that without really registering what it meant. But as those around him kept needling - hoping for a reaction he didn't want to give - it became uncomfortably clear.

The attack on Pearl Harbour had shredded whatever neutrality America had towards anyone remotely Japanese. Since that horrible day, slurs and suspicion had dogged his every step.

And it wasn't like Shiro didn't understand the sentiment because he felt that rage too. So many people had been killed during the assault. So many of his countrymen and women had perished. Keith's father had died there.

But apparently, what no one seemed to realise was that he was American too. They took one look at his eyes, at his face and his name, and labelled him an outsider.

Even here, in a place where they were being taught to die for the same cause, that hatred still lingered like an unpleasant smell. The offhanded comments from the instructors only added more fuel to the metaphorical fire.

Shiro gnashed his teeth and powered on through, knowing with a sense of dread that soon something would have to give.

OoO

"Watch it, Jap." Saunders snarled when they bumped into each other on the field, waiting for Hendrick to arrive and begin the day's routine.

Shiro jerked in response, the word was that sharp and feral.

Three weeks ago he might have apologised on reflex for running into him. Three weeks ago he might have tried to placate the other man. Three weeks ago he would have backed away before it escalated.

However, time under Hendrick's tender mercies had worn away at his tolerant outlook on people like this.

Now - tired and angry and with fire in his bones - Shiro merely straightened, using his height to his advantage and pinning Saunders with a glare. "What did you just call me?" He asked, dangerously calm.

The group around them quietened, anticipation weaving through the air so thick he could almost taste it on his tongue. This was the first time Shiro had ever engaged one of them like this, and like the exhausted, hot-blooded men they were, they wanted to watch the fallout.

Shiro ignored them, keeping his focus on the man in front of him.

Saunders was one of his more persistent tormentors, one who never failed to seize the chance to say something cruel.

Normally Shiro could brush off the tactless insults the man hurled his way; but today marked the third week he had gone without seeing or hearing from Keith and he was done.

Saunders tossed his shoulder back and bared his teeth. "You heard me."

Shiro's fists curled, even though his tone never faltered from painfully polite. "I was born and raised in New York." He told him plainly, voice elevated slightly so that there was no way any of them could have misheard.

"You think that matters?" Saunders stepped into his space, cheeks flushed with rage. "As far as I'm concerned you're all the same. A Jap is a Jap. You come into our country, act like you own everything, and then you attack like the fucking cowards you are."

Shiro's mind went smooth, and his fingers shook from how tightly he was clenching them.

It was -

God, he'd heard this all before. In some form or another. It'd been spat in his face more times than he liked to admit. Enemy. Traitor. Fucking Jap.

But it'd never made him this mad before.

He could feel it, under his skin, writhing and snarling. It was terrifying, how electrified he felt.

His nails broke through the skin of his palms, pooling blood under his fingernails.

Isaacs, one of Saunders' friends, tugged on the other man's arm. His eyes were focussed on Shiro's hands apprehensively. "Lay off it man, Hendrick's coming."

There was a pause, and Shiro readied himself because Saunders honestly looked seconds away from throwing a punch.

Do it. The thing in Shiro's chest sneered. Do it. I dare you, you fucking bastard. Hit me.

But Saunders backed away with only a dirty look.

Shiro slowly let out the breath he'd been holding, and he looked past the disappointed faces around him to see that Hendrick was indeed marching towards them, with a man on either side of him.

Shiro unclenched his fists, his fingers still shaking as his nails were peeled away from the cuts they had made. There was less blood then he'd thought, but the sight of it on his hands still left Shiro paralysed.

He'd actually hurt himself to hold his temper back.

He'd never had to do that before. He'd never even had a temper before.

Shiro clenched his eyes shut, dropping his hands to his sides. He took his anger, neatly boxed it away in some distant part of his mind and stood at attention with everyone else.

"Alright, Privates," Hendrick called, instantly telling Shiro that whoever these two newcomers were, they must be important. Hendrick hardly ever referred to them by rank, tending to favour a number of creative nicknames for them as a collective. If he was at least attempting professionalism then these two had to be high ranking. "We've got some visitors today. Look alive!"

The order had them snapping straight again.

Hendrick's eyes roamed over them critically, "This here is Colonel Iverson, and Doctor Trayling. For reasons beyond my comprehension they seem to think you lot will amount to something." Shiro valiantly tried to hide his surprise.

Colonel Iverson was a legend throughout the camp, and Shiro had heard that he was directly in charge of a specialised branch of the army.

What is he doing here?

"I expect you all to show the proper level of respect and courtesy that they deserve. Anyone failing to do so will enjoy completing our usual hike. Twice." With that threat, Hendrick stepped aside with a short nod. "Colonel."

Iverson took his place in front of them.

He was a tall man, broad and powerful in his arms and shoulders, and held himself with the utmost confidence of a man well aware of his position and the knowledge that he'd earned every stripe on his uniform.

The colonel looked over them, his expression made from ice. Shiro stared ahead blankly when those eyes rolled over him, his jaw wound tight and spine locked.

"Good day soldiers. At east."

As one, they relaxed their stances, feet apart and hands linked behind their backs.

"As I'm sure some of you are aware, I am the head of an elite subdivision in our fair army. One that, shall we say, specialises in unique fighting tactics." Iverson prowled up and down the formation with sharp, controlled steps.

"It is to our great fortune that a new method of warfare has been approved by General Patton and President Roosevelt. And it is this new method that brings myself and Doctor Trayling here today."

Shiro followed Iverson with his eyes, intrigued.

"For the past weeks you have undergone a series of challenges, ones that will help you to prepare for the war ahead." He turned about and stalked back the other way. "For the next two weeks, you will be under intense observation by a number of personnel, who will be recording your performances and scores, and evaluating you. Those that show exceptional skill will be given the chance to partake in this illustrious project and hopefully turn the tide of this war."

Iverson came to a stop near the middle, gazing out at the again.

"I am looking for the best, gentlemen, and only the best. If you want to prove yourselves, if you want to fight for your country, for your families, now is the time to step up." The colonel's eyes briefly darted over to his companion.

The thin, bespectacled man blinked and his fingers rubbed the side of his nose; but other than a faint nod he didn't acknowledge Iverson further.

The colonel's attention swung back to them. "First Lieutenant Hendrick, I'll leave them in your capable hands."

Iverson and his silent partner - this Doctor Trayling - briskly strode away after they saluted, their heads bent together and mouths moving rapidly.

Hendrick retook command. "Alright maggots, enough scratching at your balls! Let's get moving!"

OoO

The doctors that watched them were odd.

Shiro did his best to ignore their hovering, but no matter how hard he tried to blot them out, his eyes were inevitably drawn to them. Every day, without fail, he'd spot one just off to the side, a clipboard and pen in hand, inquisitive eyes tracking them all relentlessly.

They never spoke to them, never approached or interacted with them. Just watched, silent.

It made his uneasy and self-conscious whenever they were around - which seemed to be always now.

Being under this different type of scrutiny, knowing that his every move was being jotted down and examined by strangers, was making him paranoid.

He knew that the others shared his opinion, though no one ever made an attempt to share their thoughts with him. It was like an unspoken agreement amongst them.

Funnily enough, most of their unit appeared to have taken Colonel Iverson's words to heart, because the overall effort they put into the activities exploded. Shiro was still one of the most formidable, but now he had some serious competition.

This project was must be something. Or perhaps it was just Iverson's reputation, if this was the response a few measly words got.

Whatever it was, Shiro didn't care. He pushed himself more and more in his training, making his aptitude for the challenges they faced grow more prominent. The increased attention from the doctors only made his exclusion from his unit more eminent.

They snapped at him openly now, and Saunders in particular seemed hell-bent on beating him no matter the cost.

That sort of desperation was dangerous, and Shiro made sure to keep at least one eye trained on the other man at all times in case he tried anything underhanded.

The tension in their barrack was at boiling point, and Shiro was just waiting for the final threads to snap.

OoO

It happened later that night.

Shiro should have seen it coming. He'd been on edge for the past week just waiting for the confrontation he knew was headed his way.

He should have seen it.

But he'd been run ragged for the last two days by Hendrick, who seemed to think Shiro hadn't been challenged enough. He'd been pushed further than he'd been expecting, leaving him sputtering along like a broken engine. All because of Hendrick's zeal and belief that Shiro could handle it.

He could but that didn't mean that Shiro wanted the extra work.

So he'd been late finishing, and the night was already creeping over the camp as he had walked back towards the barracks.

He'd been overtired, and distracted, and too caught up in his thoughts.

He didn't hear them approaching.

But he did feel that harsh shove that sent him careening towards the side of the mess hall.

Shiro grunted and barely reacted in time to stop himself from ramming face-first into the rough wooden wall. His hands stung at the brutal impact, but he managed to catch himself just in time.

He spun around, pressing his back firmly against the building and taking a deep breath to calm himself.

There were four of them boxing him in the tiny alleyway between the two buildings. Because of course there were.

Saunders was one. Because of course he was.

Shiro couldn't even muster up the energy to be angry. He was just exhausted and hungry and cold, and this - this utter bullshit that these idiots insisted on spreading - like some sort of virus, infecting and rotting away from the inside out, destroying everything because they couldn't see - because they refused to understand - was physically painful to endure.

He was so tempted to just stand still and let this happen. To let them just punch their hatred out of their systems and hopefully get over it.

But Shiro knew, down in his bones, that this wasn't going to be a regular fight. This wasn't like the scraps back home, where he had Keith at his back and knowledge of the area. These weren't some drunken men tripping over their own feet and slurring their insults.

These men were trained, and brutal, and their hatred for Shiro, at this point, was more about who he was, rather than his name or the shape of his eyes.

He supposed it was almost ironic in a way, that for so long he'd wanted them to view him as who he really was instead of his ancestry, and now that they did, they still despised him.

He'd laugh if he weren't so damn tired.

"Nowhere to run now." Saunders chuckled quietly, the sound tainted with anticipation.

Shiro's lips kicked up at the sides, more grimace than anything. "Was that what I was doing?" He asked, tilting his head. "You'd have to actually be scary to get me to run, Saunders."

The man's face twisted, but Shiro didn't care. His eyes were already jumping between them, scanning and categorising and planning.

Four opponents. Four threats. Four rage-filled, racist idiots with a bone to pick.

Slowly, Shiro let his gaze drift around the space they were in. It was a narrow alley, barely three metres in width; hardly enough room for any large movements. They'd have to get close, but not all at once.

That was good. One or two guys he could handle. But all of them at the same time was something he was hesitant to try - hell, he wasn't that cocky, or stupid.

"Shut up." Saunders hissed, stepping closer rapidly before bringing himself to a halt. Shiro's shoulders went taunt, and he wondered if Saunders knew that he'd stopped just outside of his range.

Antagonising him was a dumb thing to do, but Shiro's mouth moved of its own accord. "Why don't you make me, Saunders?" He dared. "That's if you have the guts, of course."

Oh he could almost hear Keith in the back of his head, calling him all manner of names.

He also heard the way the echo of his best friend barked "Duck!" before Saunders' fist was flying towards his head.

Shiro sprung to the side, narrowly avoiding the hit that would've probably – definitely – rendered him unconscious.

This was not how he thought his night would go.

Shiro could fight. Growing up poor in New York – growing up with Keith - basically guaranteed that he knew how to throw and take a punch. Too many times over the years they'd found themselves in the middle of some sort of tussle, usually because some asshole couldn't keep his comments to himself.

His weeks at the camp had subjected him to many things, including hand-to-hand combat. It'd always been a harsh session, since more often than not the matches devolved into backyard brawls rather than proper lessons. But for all their faults, he had learned a lot. Those lessons honed his own budding form and taught him to harness the ferocity he typically kept under wraps. They'd shown him how to channel it into his movements, to take his back-alley technique and turn it into something lethal.

He was easily one of the best fighters in their unit.

Unfortunately though, Saunders was just as good.

Shiro knew that this was going to get bloody quickly. Saunders had been rearing to go toe-to-toe with him since they had met, and the last few days had clearly been the last straw if he was ambushing him like this.

He risked another glance at the three other men, recognising all of them with a bitter sting. There had never been too many friendly faces for him here, because while he was tolerated by a majority of the others, the anger that'd been fostered towards him was always present.

Shiro bit his lip and loosely fell into position, fists raised and eyes locked on his attackers.

Saunders was the most pressing threat out of all of them, that much Shiro knew from his time just watching the man. He'd been a boxer at some point, and his style and stamina reflected that. He also favoured his left side and hit with all the force of a charging bull.

No matter what, he couldn't be allowed to get a shot at Shiro's head. One punch would knock him out, or at least drop him long enough for Saunders to knock him out.

He had to play this smart. Saunders would go all out right from the start. There was too much anger in him for him to just sit back and wait; and the three other men would likely be just as frantic.

But just because Saunders tended to be a brute didn't mean that he was stupid. He'd been watching Shiro as well.

He'd know how Shiro preferred to fight. How he liked to hang back and let himself study how his opponent moved, before coming in, swift and deadly, and subduing them.

Saunders would be expecting him to do that here.

Which meant, to get out of this thing alive, Shiro had to switch up his routine.

"I really wish you'd stop this."

Keith smiled at him, teeth bloodied and eyes alight.

"I'm serious, Keith. You know that reacting is what they want. Just ignore what they say. Walk away."

His friend's lips flattened. "They should learn to keep their mouths shut. They don't know shit about me or my parents."

Shiro clicked his tongue softly as he dabbed at the red on his skin, backing down as he always did when Keith started on about his parents with that tone. "How many were there, anyway?" He asked absently, taking in the surprisingly small amount of injuries.

"Six."

"Si –" Shiro's eyes bugged. "Christ. Keith, what the hell? How do you only have a few bruises?"

Keith blinked up at him, his tongue coming out and prodding at the split in his lip. "I played defence."

Shiro stared at him, alcohol-soaked cloth held aloft. "Defence?" He echoed, thrown by how blasé Keith was with these things.

"Yep." Keith said, popping the last sound. "Those bastards are so used to me running at them headfirst they're always caught off-guard when I change it up."

"That's your grand strategy?" He asked, incredulous. He pressed the cloth onto the cut marring Keith's cheek, ignoring the little hiss he let out. "Get them so used to you being reckless that when you – what, play it safe? – they don't know what to do?"

"Sure is." Keith told him once he took the cloth away, his lips curling at the corners, like he could smell the exasperation and panic bubbling inside him and found it funny. "Pays to be unpredictable, Shiro."

It was one of Keith's favourite sayings, and Shiro felt like smiling just from remembering his friend.

Pays to be unpredictable.

Well then.

Shiro settled in to wait, knowing that the thin tethers of restraint holding Saunders back would snap eventually.

Unpredictable.

He could do that.

It was only a beat or two, then Saunders all but launched himself at Shiro, eyes glinting feverishly and fist flying.

Shiro watched the hit coming and pivoted at the last possible second, dodging the attack smoothly.

Saunders followed him like a bloodhound, gaze intent, trying to guess where Shiro was going to retreat to.

Shiro grinned, ducked away from two more hits, then held his ground. Saunders, arm still outstretched, body off balance, could do nothing as Shiro lashed out, his knuckles cracking against the man's jaw.

Saunders cursed and stumbled away, spitting blood from his mouth with a scowl.

Shiro would have crowed at finally being able to punch Saunders, but he was immediately attacked by one of the other men. He grunted as thick arms wrapped around him, the force of the tackle driving him back into the wall again.

He wriggled an arm free and slammed his elbow down on the back of the man who'd grabbed him, knocking against his shoulder blade and loosening his grip.

Shiro quickly latched onto the man's shirt and drove his knee into his chest as many times as he could before shoving him away to avoid another punch.

He threw himself at the next attacker, sending them to the ground in a heap. They grappled, and Shiro almost bit right through his tongue when a fist clipped him on the chin.

The rush of adrenaline that crashed into him was heady and delicious and so terribly familiar. This was what he always felt, diving into a fight to lend Keith a hand, this rush of energy that crackled like lightning.

It was addictive, and Shiro felt the most alive he had since he'd been here.

He dug his knee into the man's ribs, and punched him once, twice, three times – before he was tackled again.

Shiro landed hard, the air driven out of his lungs, and couldn't do anything but cover his head as hits rained down on him.

It was brutal, and animalistic, and it made something inside him shift.

He bucked his hips, displacing whichever of them had managed to pin him, and drew his legs up and out from the thighs trapping them. It was a simple thing to twist himself, to raise one leg and lock it around the man's throat and haul him down.

He could taste the blood in his mouth. Could feel it running down his face. Could smell the tang of it in the air.

A whistle pierced through the night, and lights – so bright they burned his eyes – illuminated the whole area. Hands, large and firm, grabbed him, ripping him upright and shoved him back into the wall for the third time. He tried to surge up against whoever had him, but more hands appeared, keeping him restrained.

A voice – multiple voices – raised and booming and hard to distinguish snapped at him to stop and calm down and that's an order, Private.

The words cut through the haze he hadn't even realised had settled over him. Shiro slumped back into the wall, pressing his bloodied palms against the rough wood and trying to slow the thundering of his heart.

The man pressing him back – a MP, oh God he was in so much trouble – didn't relax his stance once, but lessened the pressure on Shiro's arms enough that it probably wouldn't join his fresh bruises.

There were more MPs over his shoulder, each picking up one of Shiro's attackers and dragging them off in different directions.

Shiro closed his eyes and let his head dropped back.

He was in such deep shit.

OoO

Shiro stared down at the white bandages wrapped tightly around his hands. Patches of pinks and reds were slowly soaking through to the top layer, and every time he flexed his fingers he could feel the way his ripped skin rubbed against the fabric.

Just below, encircling his wrists, were handcuffs.

Shiro wasn't proud to say it wasn't his first time with silver around his wrists. But it was over two years since he'd last had to endure being arrested.

He'd been doing so well. Keith would lose it if he ever found out. Which was ironic, considering that out of the two of them, Keith was the one on first name basis with the police.

Hypocrite, Shiro thought with quiet fondness.

He sighed heavily, then immediately winced. His sides were pulsating with pain, and he didn't need a mirror to know his face was already beginning to swell. He could feel every throbbing inch of skin.

It was quiet right now. After he had been stuffed in this room by the grim faced MP, and some nameless doctor had quickly strapped him up, he'd been left completely alone. Saunders and his little posse had been carted off to another room – out of sight and away from the remnants of Shiro's rage.

It was good that they weren't here. He could still feel that urge inside him, rumbling in agitation, only partly sated. If they were in front of him right now Shiro knew he wouldn't be able to help himself.

Even in the fight he'd been overwhelmed with that damned rush.

If the MPs hadn't heard the commotion and interfered, Shiro worried at what might have happened. Fights like that, they only escalated.

But what concerned him more was how good he'd felt, every hit he landed sent his mind buzzing. He'd lost control. He'd wanted to show them all exactly how stupid they were to think they could just corner him like an animal.

Shiro breathed deep, trying to keep himself calm. It was so hard to let it go, but with each inhale, each stretch of his chest, the agony stabbed through him – reminding him.

His hands started shaking and he clenched them, relishing in the fresh bursts of pain the move brought.

He was torn between disgust and vicious satisfaction at what happened. Because it was him – the Jap, the outsider - that'd held off all four of them. They'd tried to bring him low, and instead he'd made them eat dirt.

He felt so horribly proud. And so utterly disturbed.

At least they won't say anything about you now, the whisper came from the corner of his mind, sounding once again like Keith. But the voice didn't sound happy, didn't approve of what Shiro did – or at least, didn't like that Shiro'd been caught.

Next time don't fight in the middle of a military base, you idiot.

It was just the right shade of derisive and concerned that Shiro had to smile. "Like you wouldn't have done the same thing," he muttered.

"Private Shirogane."

This voice, however, was all too real, and as unexpected as it was foreign. But it pronounced his name with an easy cadence that he hadn't heard in a while, and lacked any malice.

Those two facts were enough to grab his attention. Shiro half-turned from where he was sitting, recognising his visitor even if it took a moment from him to put a name to the face.

"Doctor…Trayling?"

The slim man smiled at him, the expression so at odds with the usual stern mask Shiro had seen him don that it made him uncomfortable.

As if sensing it, Trayling's mouth dropped and his face levelled out into something more neutral and believable.

"How are you feeling, Private Shirogane?"

Shiro frowned, his hands twisting in his lap before he forced them to go limp. "I'm fine, sir."

Trayling watched him with a strange gleam in his eyes, his pencil tapping on the paper of his clipboard rhythmically. His disbelief was tangible, but surprisingly he didn't call Shiro out for his lie.

"I was told you were in an altercation with four other privates. Would you care to explain what prompted it?"

Shiro glanced up at the other balefully, wondering if it would be rude to just gesture at his eyes. Honestly, what did the man think was the cause? He thought doctors were supposed to be smart.

"Nothing, sir." He answered quietly, head dipping towards the floor. "Just a misunderstanding."

Trayling hummed, "Quite the misunderstanding. You are sure you do not have anything to add?"

Shiro hesitated, then shook his head.

The doctor nodded silently. "You know, the others have said little of the fight as well. Though I must say, it is rare for one person to pick a fight against four others for such inconsequential matters." The man looked at Shiro from over the rim of his glasses knowingly. "I often find it to be the other way around. How funny."

Shiro avoided those sharp eyes, uncomfortable. He wasn't surprised that Saunders and the others were keeping their traps shut. On the outside, they might have been able to wriggle out of attacking Shiro, what with the general outcry against Japanese-Americans.

But here? In the Goddamn army, where the lieutenants and the captains didn't tolerate anyone being damn assaulted, there was nowhere for them to hide.

It was obvious to anyone with eyes what they'd been planning. It didn't matter that Shiro had held his own, or that when the MPs had arrived Shiro had been the one that had to be dragged off of someone.

They'd picked a fight and hadn't been prepared for the fallout.

"You did rather well," Trayling continued, when Shiro made no move to speak. "considering that you were outnumbered and essentially trapped. But that's to be expected. You are one of the most proficient soldiers to come through the camp in a while."

Shiro glanced back up when Trayling started flicking through a number of pages, the stark white paper cascading down over the clipboard in front of him.

"Exemplary results in almost every subject. Consistent praise from all officers. A good head for tactics and demonstrates a number of natural leadership qualities."

Trayling cut to look at him, as if gauging his reaction. Shiro didn't know how he was supposed to.

He'd known, of course, that the doctors had been observing them and taking notes. But it was disconcerting to have the evidence tossed back in his face.

Though that Trayling was here – that he'd clearly asked for, and read through, the developing report on Shiro – was concerning.

The last time he had seen this man, he was in the company of Colonel Iverson. That fact alone put him on almost mythological standing.

Why was he so interested in Shiro?

"You're an impressive man, Private."

Shiro frowned to himself but he was raised with manners, so he ducked his head. "Thank you, sir."

The older man waved a hand in the air. "None of this 'sir' business, Private. I am but a doctor."

Shiro let himself finally smile a bit. "Thanks then, Doc."

Amusement – quick and sinuous – darted over the man's face, lightening it just enough to get some of the tension in Shiro's back to ease.

"I'll admit I was surprised to hear you were one of the ones involved, Private. You had always seemed a rather collected individual. Though I suppose we can't fault you for defending yourself. Still," Trayling sighed, lowering the clipboard with something close to dejection on his face. "I find it despairing how humans are so easily ruled by their emotions."

Shiro shrugged, fiddling with his bandages and ignoring how cold the metal felt on his skin. "That's what it means to be one, I guess."

Trayling's attention shot back to him, intrigued. "Oh?" He prompted.

Wrongfooted by the interest in his throwaway comment, Shiro could only shrug again. "Well, emotions make us who we are, Doc. I mean, would life even be worth living if we didn't get to experience them?" He glanced away, lips pursed.

"And yeah, I guess sometimes we feel a little too much, and that makes us do stupid things –" like ambushing someone who's done nothing, or this whole bloody war, for instance " – but life isn't black and white anyway, and things always get jumbled up, so there's not much we can do about that."

Shiro looked down at his hands, gently curling his fingers inwards. "I, for one, think it's a good thing. Emotions – all of them. Love, joy, even anger or sadness…it makes us more. And sometimes following your heart is better than following your head."

His gaze trailed back to Trayling, who was staring at him with a curious expression on his face. Shiro flushed, ducking his chin in embarrassment. He hardly knew the man and here he was going off on a tangent about feelings? God. "Ah, sorry, Doc. I didn't –"

Trayling cut him off, "Nonsense, Private. That was quite an insightful opinion. I suppose I can agree with you for the most part. Though as a man of science, I do prefer listening to my head more." The chuckle he gave successfully killed what was left of Shiro's discomfort.

"Now," he said, holding his clipboard high, "let us see just what the damage to you is. Your shirt, please."

Shiro looked down at his bound hands uncertainly. He wasn't sure how this was going to work.

"Ah, fret not." Trayling reached into his pocket and pulled out a small key, setting to unlocking Shiro's handcuffs.

"Are you allowed to do this?" Shiro asked, rubbing at the freed skin to sooth the faint irritation. "I was restrained for a reason."

Trayling shrugged, replacing the key and looking wholly unconcerned with what he'd done. "There's little you could do to hurt me, Private. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over at this point. Now, your shirt."

And with that blow to his pride, Shiro let the examination continue, swallowing down the minor amount of mortification in favour for examining just how badly bruised he was.

He followed all of Trayling's instructions, wincing only minutely when his burning muscles protested at some of the movements.

When the man finally finished taking down whatever notes he needed, and slipped his pen back into his coat pocket, Shiro bit back a sigh of relief.

"Well, Private. Other than being sore for a few weeks, you should make a full recovery. So long as you do not aggravate your injuries too much, I foresee no issues arising."

Shiro nodded, though he refrained from adding that by the time 'a few weeks' passed, he'd more than likely be on his way to the fronts. And after that – well.

"May I ask you something, Private?" Shiro glanced at Trayling absently as he plucked his shirt off of the bed and started redressing carefully.

"Do you have a family?"

The question - that question - was unexpected, and Shiro, with his arms still tangled in his sleeves, froze. His neck snapped up, eyes wide and confused.

The doctor was standing there patiently, his hands clasped politely in front of him. His utter lack of contriteness at asking the personal question had Shiro feeling uneasy all over again.

"I…no. My parents died a few years ago." He quickly tugged his shirt on completely and fiddled with a loose string there. "So, no family, I guess."

Trayling's head tilted, and he looked fascinated. Like an inquisitive child listening to a fantastic tale rather than a grown man learning about some fresh soldier's past. "But there is someone, yes? A…'sweetheart'?" The word fell awkwardly from the doctor's mouth, as if he'd only vaguely heard the term before and didn't know if he was using it correctly.

Unbidden, Shiro's cheeks flushed again. He quickly turned his head to hide the incriminating evidence. "Ah, no. No. No sweetheart, Doc." He tried to smile, but it was stilted and odd.

Trayling frowned lightly, and Shiro didn't like the assessing once-over he was treated to. Desperate to stop any further prying, Shiro spoke again, trying to keep Trayling from discovering anything dangerous. It was almost easy, with all the years of practice, to spew the words out believably.

"There's my best friend though." Whatever the doctor had been going to say tapered off, the interest returning to his gaze. "We've known each other for years now, and we share – well, shared, an apartment before I got drafted." Shiro rubbed at the bandages on his hand again, fingertips running along the seam to distract himself from the sudden pang of longing. This was the first time since coming here that he'd even mentioned Keith to anyone, and it made the separation between them that much more real.

"And you are close to him?"

The relatively innocent inquiry had him tensing, panic hitting him like a freight train. But even as his thoughts twisted in fear, his mouth was on damage control.

"We're close." He's the only thing I still care about in this world. "Always looking out for each other." I'd do anything for him. Anything. "He's like my little brother, in that way." Lielielielielie.

"I see." Trayling looked thoughtful, head facing away from him. Shiro waited with baited breath, his skin itching with anxiety.

This was so incredibly dangerous.

"May I ask you something else, Private?"

Oh God, does he know?

"Sure thing, Doc."

Trayling drummed his fingers on the clipboard, peering him intensely. "What do you seek to accomplish here?"

What? He thought. "I'm sorry?"

Trayling gestured for him to sit and at a loss, Shiro did so. The man mirrored him, seating himself on the chair next to the bed.

"I understand that you were drafted and did not necessarily choose to be here. But now that you are, now that you must partake in this war, I wonder what you wish to do with it." The doctor continued after a pause. "Some embrace the notion of eliminating an enemy. Some cannot wait to join the front, chasing dreams of glory. Some are so afraid of the thought that they cannot breath."

Shiro swallowed, eyes unable to move from the man. "Which are you, Private Shirogane?"

He let out a short breath and bit his lip. His mind was abuzz with questions and confusion as he took his time to answer. No one had ever asked him this before; not seriously, not wanting to hear his true opinions.

It was surprisingly easy for him to find the words.

"I don't want to kill anyone, Doc." He admitted, voice small and quiet. Shiro gazed down at his hands for the umpteenth time, rubbing and rubbing. "I'm not a killer, and the thought of taking someone's life…even to save my own…" He frowned, his apprehension plain to see. "I mean, I'm sure I will when the time comes, but I don't want to…"

He gritted his teeth, gesturing emptily with his hands. He knew that it might seem otherwise, covered in blood and bruises as he was, but even when he'd been in the throes of anger, he hadn't actually tried to kill Saunders or the others. Even in that state he'd had restraint.

"I don't want to become someone I'm not." He forced out, laying it at Trayling's feet like a gauntlet. Because for these past weeks he felt like all he'd done was change. "I just want to be Takashi Shirogane. And I'm afraid that I'll lose the thing what makes me me out there."

Shiro closed his eyes. "But then I think about what might happen if things get any worse –"

Keith being drafted. Keith being sent to the fronts. Keith dying in some foreign country, so small and pale as he lay in the mud. Too young and too bright to be lost.

"– and I'm willing to stand up and fight. To protect what's important to me."

When he looked again, there was a weary, sad smile on the doctor's face. "Home and country?" He parroted, likely from one of the many posters hanging around the camp.

Shiro returned the gesture but shook his head slowly. "To protect him." He confessed, throat working at the lump that appeared there. "To keep him safe."

It was as close as he could get to actually saying it, and he had no clue if Trayling understood what he was alluding to, but the man nodded either way.

"A noble cause, Private Shirogane." He inclined his head, the move seeming to hold so much more significance than it should. "And congratulations, by the way."

Shiro blinked. "Pardon?"

Trayling pushed himself to his feet, hands slipping behind his back in a loose grip. He raised one eyebrow with an air of good humour. "You are officially my choice for this project."

Shiro's eyebrows shot heavenward and he promptly lost all form of social grace. "Wait – what?"

Trayling was smiling again, but it was subdued. Respectful. Real. "I am the Chief Scientist in charge of this operation. While I do have to pander to the military officials, I also have some sway in the proceedings." The man tugged his glasses off and looked unobstructed at Shiro. The weight of his gaze was palpable. "I had the option of selecting the first candidate to assist in the project, and I have decided on you, Private."

Shiro was stunned, staring up at the doctor with more than a touch of uncertainty.

Him. Trayling picked him?

"Why?" He asked, baffled.

Trayling shrugged, and there was something secret lurking in his eyes. "This project is unlike any other. The participants will be given such an incredible gift. The colonel wants good soldiers. He wants men who will take orders and follow the chain of command. I, on the other hand, want someone capable of thinking for himself. Someone that understands the need for authority but is not opposed to challenging it when the situation calls."

Trayling's expression was almost fond as he stared at Shiro. "I want someone who is not blinded by notions of personal grandeur, or that allows biases to cloud his judgement. I want you, Private, because I believe you can be a good soldier and a great man."

"I…thank you." Shiro couldn't meet the man's gaze. He was incapable of even finding words adequate enough to respond with. After weeks of being hounded by barely suppressed hatred and cruel comments, having someone so blatantly list what they liked about him was liberating.

The only person who'd never been shy about that was Keith. Always going out of his way to cheer Shiro up when times were tough – or, if that failed, hunting down whoever had insulted him with extreme prejudice – always trying to protect Shiro even when Keith was the one that needed help.

But Keith was Keith. Trayling was different.

The doctor hummed. "I have watched you personally this past week. You are smart, and dedicated, and show a great depth for strategy. You understand the importance of completing a mission, but something tells me you would not hesitate to take another route if you believed it to achieve a better outcome. You are precisely the sort of man I would entrust this chance to, because I know you will do amazing things with it."

Trayling patted him on the shoulder. "In four days' time we will be moving to a more secure facility to debrief you. Until then, I wish you well, Private."

And then he was gone, leaving Shiro alone with his bruises and his questions.

OoO

Sitting in the jeep, Camp McCoy becoming but a distant point in the rear-view mirror, Shiro had trouble naming the sensation budding inside him, nestled between his ribs.

It could hardly be considered sadness, since the place had done little to endear itself to him. But it was something. Something that made his heart twinge.

For all he tried though, the closest Shiro could get to properly labelling it was a loss of stability.

He'd grown comfortable there, despite how the camp had almost crushed him. How it'd pierced his flesh with its brittle teeth and tried to drain him dry. He'd allowed the place to shape him, to sharpen his broken edges until each was a weapon against the world.

Every aspect of his life had been controlled there for so long it was difficult to imagine a time when he hadn't been in the army.

And now, just when he'd finally started to establish himself, he was being shuffled around again, uprooted and left unsure.

Shiro huffed to himself, a wry grin on his face.

He had no idea what was waiting for him at the end of this drive, wherever it was they were going. All he did know was that a lot of high ranking officials would be coming in to witness this secretive project bear fruit.

The idea of being surrounded by such important men was unsettling, especially since Shiro didn't even know what, exactly, they were coming to see.

Doctor Trayling seemed to think he'd excel though, and since the man was one of the top people in charge of this entire thing, Shiro was willing to take his word for it.

OoO

They told him what they wanted to do, and Shiro spent the first half of the debrief staring at them blankly, wondering if this was all some sort of elaborate joke.

Because increased strength? Enhanced senses? Accelerated healing? It was like something out of a comic book – one of those ones that Keith used to horde like they were made of gold.

It, honestly, sounded ridiculous.

But all of the scientists, all of the doctors, all of his superiors were all so serious.

They showed him notes and drawings of things he could never hope to understand no matter how many times they explained it – like shoving these things in his face would somehow help him make sense of it all. They ran through the dangers of the procedure so that he knew he was, essentially, putting his life on the line. They told him what they hoped to accomplish by…altering him.

Shiro wasn't convinced.

This was so much more than he'd thought it would be.

He'd been thinking along the lines of him testing a new weapon. He never thought he might be the weapon they wanted to test.

And sure, in theory it sounded like an unbelievable opportunity – something that could save countless lives. It could, as Colonel Iverson said in the beginning, turn the tide of the war completely.

But Shiro…Shiro was a selfish person, despite what Trayling said.

He wasn't willing to risk dying before he even got on the battlefield. He wasn't going to take the chance of losing Keith because of some experiment.

And he'd told Trayling. He'd told him that he didn't want to be changed.

Shiro spent the second half of the debrief trying to back out.

His steadfast refusal did nothing but aggravate the scientists, but Shiro could hardly care about that. They weren't the ones that might die from an experimental serum. They weren't the ones in danger.

They couldn't expect him to just agree without at least thinking it through.

Eventually they were forced to call a short break, and it was then that Trayling approached him.

Shiro stopped the man before he could open his mouth. "I'm sorry, Doc. But I can't do this. I don't want to be some souped-up guy – and that's if I even survive this thing."

Trayling's mouth was thin with disappointment even as he nodded in understanding. "It's perfectly alright, Private. Some things we just cannot bring ourselves to do." The doctor put his hand on Shiro's shoulder. "But at least consider this carefully before you reject it. I have no doubt that you would pull through the procedure. Your body is already strong and you are young."

Shiro's jaw clenched and he had to turn his face away. Trayling's fingers tightened the barest amount, on the verge of harm. "Being given these abilities would increase your chances of survival on the fronts, Private. You would be virtually indestructible. You would be able to come home, alive, which is not something everyone gets the chance at. You would get to see your friend again."

He knew what the other was attempting to do. Shiro saw through it the moment Trayling started talking. But knowing you were being manipulated didn't mean that the words were less effective.

He glanced down at his polished boots, nibbling on his lip.

There was some merit to what the doctor said. Going through with the experiment would give him the means to survive the war, so long as he played it safe. It'd give him the chance to make it home to Keith, even if he returned a little different than he had been when he left.

Were his own doubts really enough to stop him from taking this chance with his two hands? Hadn't he secretly promised himself that he would do whatever it took to get back to Keith?

The temptation was too strong for him to resist.

He peeked back at Trayling. "'Super-soldier', huh? That's what you're calling it?"

The doctor grinned at him, giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder. "You will be pushed to peak physical prowess. You will become the ultimate force for our troops." The emotion in his eyes softened with gratitude. "You will save so many people." The man whispered, and Shiro was taken aback by how strained Trayling's voice became.

"I look at you and I see the future of my – our people. You, and all those that come after you…You are going to change everything."

"Doc?" Shiro asked gently, concerned. Trayling's eyes were wet with unshed tears. The man looked heartbroken but so hopeful.

Trayling blinked and swallowed. "Forgive me, Private. It has been so long since this all began, and the road was difficult. I almost lost faith in ever finding the correct formula. So many of my…colleagues doubted that we could ever succeed. That it would all be for nothing."

Shiro frowned, sympathy rising in him at how wretched Trayling sounded. When the man looked back at him though, his eyes were dry and filled with determination. "Thank you, Takashi. Thank you."

The sheer amount of appreciation in those words rocked him to his core. There was nothing he could say in the face of it.

Instead, Shiro straightened his shoulders. "Let's do this, Doc."

OoO

The restraints were cold against his bare skin, causing his muscles to jump and contract every time one was fastened over his body. He tried hard to ignore how deafening the clicks sounded even in a room filled with the chatter of dozens.

Doctors and scientists and men in uniforms buzzed around and above him, excited and nervous and impatient.

It made Shiro feel incredibly small whenever a pair of unknown eyes raked over his prone, uncovered form.

Doctor Trayling never strayed far from his side, likely knowing that without his hovering presence Shiro would already be making for the door. He hated how pathetically grateful he was for the familiar face and the constant stream of mumbled, kind words.

It was the only thing keeping him in place.

They'd put him in some incomplete metal contraption and a far off, hysterical part of his mind cried it's just like a coffin before he pushed it away, for fear of igniting his barely suppressed panic.

He focussed on counting his breaths, pacing it to the steadily beeping monitor just to his right, and listened with half an ear as Trayling addressed the other members that were congregating in the view area. He was distracted though, too busy watching two scientists step up towards him.

In their hands were several vials of bright blue liquid.

They slotted the vials into place beside him, the glide of them against the metal casing like knives being sharpened. He glanced over at Trayling, taking in the simmering anticipation in the doctor's expression.

A nurse stuck him with a needle while he wasn't looking and he winced at the pinch. "What was that?" He asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

She was as stone-faced as every other one of Trayling's colleagues, with a thin veneer of disapproval and reproach dripping off her whole body. "Penicillin." She answered shortly, already melting back away from him.

Shiro looked down at his arm, craning his neck to study the area where she'd jabbed him.

"Takashi?" Trayling murmured.

He took a deep breath, head rolling to face the doctor once again and nodding when their eyes caught.

He was as ready as he'd ever be.

Trayling touched him on the arm one last time, patting him gently before he too moved away.

A new voice called out over the room, young and eager. "Serum infusion beginning in five, four," additional restraints pressed against his tender skin and he closed his eyes. "three, two, one."

The burn was immediate and Shiro surged up against the clamps, jaw clenched tight. He could feel it rolling through him, the rush cold as it spread like a virus. Staining his bones like an ink drop on a piece of paper.

He gasped in pain.

The machine around him whirred, though the sound hardly pierced through the veil of agony clouding him. He felt himself tilting upwards, but it was difficult to open his eyes and see. All he could think of was the fire in his blood, burning him from the inside out.

But just as quickly as it hit him, the sensation died.

When he finally managed to pry his eyelids apart, the pod had sealed around him.

"Takashi?" He heard dimly through the metal.

"Too late to back out, Doc?" He croaked, going for humour to cover the tremor in his voice. There were several dull knocks that reverberated around him as Trayling tapped the front of the machine.

Shiro sucked his lip between his teeth. He could only make out shadowed figures moving in front of him, the tiny, tinted window warping the outside world too much for him to know who they were.

The wait for the next step felt longer than the few seconds it actually was, giving him just enough time to thank God that he'd never been afraid of small spaces.

When it started he had to squint. The light grew and grew until he was bathed in it, the rays as bright as the sun itself. Unlike the serum, it took some time for him to feel it.

But God it was so much worse.

Shiro was blinded by the light but his throat worked fine as he cried out.

He was being torn apart. The pain was everywhere and nowhere. Every fibre of his being was burned away and replaced over again in a never-ending cycle.

Shiro threw his head back and screamed and screamed and screamed.

He must have blacked out, because when he next blinked his eyes open, hands were on him, propping him up. Voices were all around him. Loud - too loud.

Shiro hung his head and groaned, both to escape the pitched noise and the sheer brightness of the room.

"Takashi? Takashi, can you hear me?" Someone mutter in his ear. Shiro turned towards it instinctively.

"Keith?" He tried to say but his mouth wasn't working and his tongue moved like slime.

Everything felt wrong and yet so much better than before. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, and curl up inside himself with contentment at the same time.

"Takashi, how do you feel?"

It was Trayling.

The biting disappointment at Keith's absence reared its head like always, but it faded quickly as the question registered.

He contemplated how to answer as he steadied his feet. Equilibrium returning to him too fast to be natural.

How could he put into words what he'd just endured, for people who could not possibly understand?

"Bigger." He settled on, voice little more than a whisper.

And it was true. Shiro had never been small, and his job had helped him build up plenty of muscles. But now that he actually looked around he could see he was easily one of the tallest in the room – even hunched over as he was.

He was heavier too, broader in his shoulder and thicker in his arms and thighs. Every twist of his body let him feel with new astonishment how his muscles rippled and twisted – stronger and more defined then they'd ever been.

He felt…he felt good.

Shiro shifted so that he was no longer draped over the men supporting him and clenched his hands, watching raptly as the bones flexed. He was stunned to see the callouses that once covered his fingers were gone, leaving unblemished skin in their place.

A quick scan of his chest showed none of the bruises or marks there either.

It was a miracle.

The energy in the air was running rampant as the noise escalated. People shook hands, clapped each other on the back, and celebrated the success.

Shiro looked around, taking in how vibrant the world was through his new eyes, and smiled.

OoO

There was an explosion, and a gunshot, and Trayling died.

Shiro's new life started with blood on his hands, a dead assassin, and a puddle of blue liquid on the ground.

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