Claustrophobia had always been a problem.

As groggy eyes opened to fuzzy black dimly lit by a small window above, they immediately snapped shut again in an attempt to squeeze the reality away.

For a moment, high school and middle school came to mind. Even smaller then, the target painted by stature had made easy prey for the aggressive bullies those 6 years. The first day of middle school had found the soon-to-be familiar territory of the inside of a locker. It began with a simple seed of curiosity: would the tiniest in the class fit in a locker? Then it developed into the thought of power: since they're bigger, healthier, and stronger than him, who cared if he wanted to or not? At first it wasn't so bad, just uncomfortable. In the futile hope that it would stop if not encouraged, no real reaction was given. However, it consistently happened, each time giving the same sick satisfaction; and eventually the claustrophobia developed.

Having been left trapped in a locker smaller than a coffin and then left there over the weekend, twice, had just exacerbated the effect. The orphanage had not thought to come looking. Bucky was taking the weekend off to try and earn a little money, and so didn't even notice the absence. Finally the janitor had noticed the whimpers coming from the locker and opened it to find a starving, dehydrated Steve Rogers having a panic attack in the dark enclosed space.

By sophomore year, the janitor had learned to check locker 215 every time he passed. More often than not, he found the tiny delicate teen, tears rolling down the gaunt cheeks. Other times the panic caused an asthma attack, and the subsequent wheezing and coughing quickly attracted the attention of anyone who passed. The nurse was quite familiar with her most frequent patient. However, she was spread over 5 different schools; she couldn't be there every time to help.

The occasional saving grace was Bucky. He always looked out for his friend. He scared away the bullies whenever he was around; they had no desire to fight with the larger boy. He was ruthless if he ever caught anyone bothering him. However occasionally Bucky got sick, and then Steve was in for it. Two of these absences resulted in the weekend stays in the locker.

.

Steve furiously blinked his eyelids and began to struggle and panic. Still confused by the drug, he began to call the janitors name while trying not to hyperventilate. As more feeling came back to his body, he began to notice the differences in his surroundings.

He could hear commotion going on around him, but not bustling students, nor the quiet of the empty hallway. Also, his arms, legs, and chest were securely tied down to something. The space seemed bigger and rounder than the usual squared edges and corners of locker 215. The light shining through the window above him was much harsher than the dim, flickering yellow of the high school hallways.

Memory began to return. He was twenty-two years old, not sixteen; high school was a torment of the past. The relief that came with that realization was quickly derailed, though, when he remembered that he still didn't know where he was or how he got there. Walking through what he last could recall, it slowly came back to him. He had seen the young girl being harassed by those two men, and stepped in to lend a hand. They had turned to him in their anger, and he had found himself on the bad side of two furious drunks. He hadn't been killed, someone had stepped in... who was that? It was.. …

Doctor Erskine! It all came rushing back. They had eaten and he had drunk that really good water, and then it all went sort of fuzzy.

Given that information, and still attempting to stave of the incoming panic attack, he began to call out, "Hello! Doctor Erskine? Are you out there?"

Immediately the commotion outside began to increase. He struggled to hear the muffled voices, waiting for acknowledgment. It never came. He began to scream, deaf to the ever-growing activity outside of his confinement.

The panicked cries had sprung the intern to action. His instruction was to assist the minor scientists and doctors until the subject awoke. Then he was to get Mr. Stark and Dr. Erskine. He jumped up from where he was extrapolating final data and raced to the lab, where he quickly informed the two men that the subject was waking up, and was exhibiting panic. Erskine grabbed the vials of the serum and rushed with Stark to the main lab.

As Howard began putting the vials into the appropriate places, Erskine went to placate his panicked test subject.

"Steve!" He had to raise his voice to be heard over the cries. "Steve, can you hear me!?" The call had to be repeated several times until he was noticed.

"Who is that?" Steve recognised the voice but couldn't quite place who it belonged to. Maybe it was the doctor? "Doctor Erskine, is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," the reply came, "I need you to calm down. You are about to go through a quick medical procedure."

Immediately, protest rose.

"I barely know you!" Steve shouted, injured fury distracting him from his fears, "You have no right to do anything to me. I am an American Citizen, not an animal. Let me out! If you tell me exactly what you want to do, maybe I'll consider it. You may have given me a meal, but you certainly didn't earn the right to knock me out without my permission and tie me up in this thing, whatever it is. Let me out RIGHT NOW!" The shouts escalated until the panic he had attempted to stave off choked him, and he began to wheeze as his asthma acted up.

Erskine ignored the shouts, as it was clear to him that they should just move on to the experiment. It was time for the transformation. He nodded to Stark and the other scientists, who had quieted down in preparation for the final steps.

"Tonight we are creating a super soldier. Tomorrow we will have an army of super soldiers. Then we will have won the war, even if the fighting continues, because nobody else has the ideas and knowledge we have, to make the perfect human being. Activate the pod and start the injections."

.

Steve started when he felt all the injections being made in his skinny arms. And then, when the energy began to build, he began to scream once again. The team monitored his growth and transformation deeper into the night, ignoring his increasing sounds of distress and just making sure he was still alive.

It was the worst pain he'd ever felt. It was all of the bullying and attacks combined. It was growing pains exponentially increased, and all over his body. It was a charlie horse, but every single muscle was affected. It was the light sensitivity and the headache, the soreness that never went away. It lasted for what seemed like forever.

.

The disturbed intern made his required notes on the process:

Subject exhibits signs of physiological and psychological distress. Life-sign readings, however, indicate that it is in better physical shape after 5 minutes inside the pod, after having been administered the serum than after having a full meal.

After two hours, the treatment has finished. It is now 0127 hours and life signs are at a major peak. There are no recorded instances of a healthier human. …

Then a shot echoed throughout the hall as several scientists guided a half-conscious and severely traumatized Steve Rogers out of the pod. Erskine was hit. A hired security man grabbed the culprit who, after crunching on a false tooth, was killed by the cyanide within.

They had not saved any of the serum. It was not written down anywhere for fear that it would be stolen. Instead, the doctor had created it from memory. Thus, with Erskine dead, the only remnant of the Super Soldier program was the now-unconscious man on the recovery cot: Steve Rogers.