Almost thirteen hours after leaving D.C., including one stop for food and another for, according to Natasha, "better if you don't know," and they arrived in a small city in upper Michigan. Becca rubbed her eyes as she stumbled out of the passenger's side in front of the apartment complex. She had driven for a bit after the rest stop. Then, she noticed Natasha kept glancing in the rearview and got her to admit she thought they were possibly being followed, which made Becca so nervous that she nearly hit another car. Natasha's observation had been a false alarm, but they had switched back and she spent all night awake, listening to the radio for news.

It was going on two weeks since she had a decent night's sleep. Her head pounded, the ache running from her skull all the way into her teeth. Her mouth felt fuzzy. Her neck itched beneath the brace. Her dirty clothes stuck uncomfortably to her skin. Long story short, she could do with a shower and a nap, but she was anxious to get started on finding Steve. The first twenty-four hours in a missing person's case were the most crucial and over half of that time had already trickled away.

The apartment Natasha had rented looked clean. Definitely meant for just one person space-wise. It had a bedroom, bathroom, and a larger room with kitchen equipment on one side and enough space for a couch and TV on the other. All of it was unfurnished – fridge and microwave excepted – however, the barren floors and walls giving the place a feeling of isolation despite the city noise outside.

Natasha dropped her bag on the floor. "You should get some sleep. Use my clothes as a pillow if you want. I'll be back."

"Back?" Becca squawked, unprepared for this sudden departure. "Where are you going?"

"I've got errands to run. What size clothing are you?"

"You're seriously going out to get clothes?" Her head pounded harder. Steve had been kidnapped by Hydra, and Natasha was worrying about her pant size? Unbelievable. Being an agent and all, Becca had expected her to be more on task.

"It's last on my list," Natasha assured her.

"Finding Steve better be first on that list."

"Of course it is."

"Well then, what can I do while you're gone? Do you have a laptop or something?"

After surveying her for several silent moments, Natasha nodded. She retrieved a laptop from her car and set up the Wi-Fi, although with some protective programs. Finished tracker-proofing everything, she gave a short lecture on websites to avoid – Becca was kind of offended that Natasha thought her dumb enough to log into social media accounts.

They decided that "monkeys" would be the password for letting Natasha back into the apartment, and she stressed that Becca wasn't to let her in no matter what else she said. Once she got Becca's clothing sizes, Natasha left her to it.

Becca settled into a corner with the laptop. She brought up Google and hesitated, fingers resting on the keys, debating where to start. General was probably best. She searched "Captain America missing." A bunch of articles popped up. She scanned the news section for the latest updates, but no official progress had been made. Which could be good or bad because it meant that no one had found a body – that they were announcing anyway – but also it didn't give her anything new to go on.

Returning to the main page and filtering by most recent posts, she poked through some articles, trying to avoid looking at pictures of her taken in the harried minutes when she'd spoken to reporters. One glance told her enough; she looked like a crazy person.

It was a picture of herself, however, that brought her up short. A screenshot, actually, from one of the torture videos. She had of course seen the bruises, the swelling, and the cuts along her throat when she looked in mirrors. But there was so much blood. Blood drying beneath her nose. Blood smearing her lips and chin. Blood curtaining her throat. And blood filling one eye which stared at the camera with this expression of…

Becca couldn't name the emotion, but she knew it. Naked pain, broken terror. Something like that, hovering on a thin edge, desperate to teeter and fall into nothingness. Her lips were parted in a gurgling sob, building to a scream. She could feel it. Deep her gut and rising. Warm tears trickled down her cheeks, warm as the blood which pounded in her ears. The pounding matched her head. She shoved a knuckle into her mouth and bit down to hold back the scream, while thrusting the laptop away. Her breath came in pants. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears plopping onto the back of her hand.

She was okay. She was safe. She was okay. She was safe.

Pulling her legs to her chest, she imagined herself sitting at home on her comfy bed instead of the hard floor and repeated the mantra to herself until she didn't feel like screaming anymore. Okay, time to focus on Steve. He needed her. Focus.

Becca took the knuckle out of her mouth. Bloody tooth marks were imprinted on the skin. She went to the bathroom, fighting down bile, and washed the skin clean before returning to the laptop. She clicked the button to go back. Doing a general search hadn't gotten her anywhere. She kept up the newsfeed and opened a new tab. What did she know? Steve had been taking boxes out to the moving truck when he disappeared. Natasha believed that some of the police force had to be involved, and she agreed. Hydra was the most likely suspect. What she needed to figure out was where Hydra had taken him. Hmm.

She tried checking Google Earth, but found that the images hadn't been updated in over a year. She wondered if Natasha had enough computer know-how to hijack a satellite. But with Natasha gone until later, she still had to figure out what do to in the meantime. She rubbed her neck brace and thought.

Know your enemy and know yourself, and you need not fear the results of a hundred battles.

Or something like that.

Steve had once used the quote (like the big nerd he was) while they played Risk, which he hadn't completely destroyed her at – but only because she had put in research hours on strategies for the game. Which did not count as cheating when going up against one of the greatest tactical minds in history.

Know your enemy. She had to find out everything she could about Hydra. Not the most immediate solution, but she didn't have any better ideas.

Wikipedia provided a reminder of the basics, and after, she dug into the file dump from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse. Luckily, people had already begun sorting all the information.

Hydra had been involved in quite a lot. Becca wasn't surprised. The big shock had been Hydra's existence. But the concept of a government agency – Hydra under the guise of S.H.I.E.L.D. – secretly having their hand in a bunch of events and forming connections with powerful people, that was a common public perception right there. Not that she didn't stumble across any surprises. Apparently, Hydra had been involved in the death of Tony's parents. And the Winter Solider had been mentioned in connection.

Becca created three spreadsheets. The first listed known safe-houses and bases of operation, as well as the dates on which they had been used. These had probably been abandoned and/or were already being searched, but it didn't hurt to keep them in mind. The second focused on events like raids, takeovers, assassinations, etc. that Hydra was linked to, with notes of the locations and dates. The final spreadsheet involved names that were dropped. She googled each to see if she could find out who they were or, in the case of names she knew, where they were last seen. She also included the dates of the files in which they were mentioned.

Her idea was to cross-reference all of the spreadsheets in the hopes of finding hotspots of activity where Hydra might take Steve in a pinch. After all, they wouldn't have had long to plan the kidnapping. It did occur to her that he might have been taken by someone else, but if that was the case, she had nothing at all to go on, so she stuck to the spreadsheets.

She was still at it when a knock sounded on the door, propped up against a wall to keep from falling asleep and barely able to read the computer screen. She kept nodding off, the loss of balance as her head lowered snapping her awake each time.

Her knees cracked when she stood. She had to hold the wall as pins and needles jabbed at her legs. Natasha had given her a gun, but touching it made her feel sick. She settled on a pen. Not as deadly, but if she slammed it into someone's head, it'd hurt.

She stared through the peephole, pen aloft. It was Natasha. She reached for the doorknob, but remembered at the last second to ask, "Who is it?"

"Monkeys," said Natasha.

She opened the door. "Find anything?"

"Maybe," Natasha replied, unloading several bags onto the floor. "Let me empty the car first."

Becca insisted on helping in order to speed up the process, so they only had to make two trips. Natasha had brought food, bathroom essentials, two sleeping bags, and two pillows in addition to sealed duffel bags which swung heavily from her shoulders. Becca was guessing weapons.

Over heated up cartons of ramen, Natasha explained that she had the names of all the cops who had been on duty around Steve's apartment, as well as one of the special operatives. Some were aliases, some were not. All of them had gone to ground in the hours following Steve's disappearance, except for one of the cops, who had allegedly shot himself in his apartment (Becca had seen that while refreshing the Google news). All security footage had been mysteriously wiped, but she had "a contact" who was working on recovering it.

Becca, in turn, explained what she had been working on. Natasha didn't give any indication of whether or not she thought the spreadsheets would be useful, listening without so much as a nod. When Becca also explained her idea about using satellites, Natasha informed her that she didn't know how to hijack a satellite, but she was sure her contact had thought of it.

"So what do we do now?" Becca asked. She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. "Should I keep working on the spreadsheets while you follow up on those cops? Or do you think there's something more helpful I could be doing?"

Natasha nodded to the collection of bags. "Take a shower and get some sleep."

"I can sleep tonight. I've been up for more than twenty-four hours before."

"Sleep deprivation impairs your thought process. He needs you thinking clearly."

Becca wrinkled her nose, ready to argue that she could manage a while longer. But her itchy eyes and pounding headache said otherwise. "Okay, but just a few hours, and then wake me up." She could trade off with Natasha, who still appeared alert but had the beginning signs of telltale bruising beneath her eyes.

She had gotten used to the smell of her clothing, but the stink came back full-force as she stripped. She filled the bath halfway with water and got in on her knees to avoid putting the bullet wound on her hip or the knife wounds on her neck wet. She had learned her lesson after the shower incident. A thorough washcloth scrub and hair washing later, she drained the tub and got into a plain pair of sweatpants and t-shirt.

Natasha had already set up the sleeping bags, one on either side of the bedroom. Becca chose the one farthest away from the door and settled down. It didn't take her long to fall asleep.

Becca woke up to a sore back and a cheek wet with drool, but her headache had gotten more bearable. She had expected nightmares, but none had come. Too tired, it seemed. Light shone behind the window blinds, so she must not have slept long. She did have to pee really bad though. She hurried to the bathroom on shaky legs, which were not yet quite as awake as her bladder.

She used the toilet and splashed cold water on her face to jar herself into alertness. Ugh. Everything was sore. She ran through a few quick stretches, and then turned her attention to the living room area.

Which Natasha had turned into Find Steve Central. That might be a little dramatic, but she did have five laptops set up with several modems and a router, along with other equipment Becca didn't recognize. Additionally, she had a stack of files beside her, some of the pages on the floor fanned out. In the middle of it all, the serene eye of the technological storm, sat Natasha. She glanced up as Becca came in.

"There's half a can of soup in the fridge." Her gaze lowered to one of the laptops and resumed typing. "Or I made – they're like pancakes."

She'd had time to make soup and pancakes? Becca asked, "How long was I asleep?"

"Fourteen hours."

"What?! I told you to wake me up."

"You needed to sleep. And there hasn't been any change."

Becca struggled not to freak out. Obviously, Natasha had been keeping an eye on things, and other people had still been looking for Steve. "Explain where we are then, and I'll take over while you get some sleep."

"I already slept."

"Fine. Whatever." She waved at the laptops. "What's all this?"

Two of the laptops were for surveillance on this apartment. Natasha had hacked into the security camera out front, as well as setting up her own in blind spots. One of the laptops still had the Google news feed up and was being regularly refreshed. The fourth laptop was monitoring some potential Hydra networks for activity. The last laptop – the one with the largest modem – ran constant facial recognition software on security feeds all over the country and some other parts of the world. Natasha was currently working on hacking into more feeds.

Becca had to admit, this was pretty impressive. And way out of her depth. "So, what can I do?"

Natasha nudged the laptop with the news feed towards her. "Keep working on those spreadsheets."

"Okay." She sat down in front of the laptop and found that spreadsheets were still open along with the tab for the Hydra files she had been reading.

They passed the days in front of those laptops. Occasionally Natasha left to scout out a location or do spy stuff. When Becca asked to go, the request was denied, and she didn't push because she knew she'd get in the way more likely than not. In fact, she started to wonder if Natasha was humoring her by giving her small tasks that ultimately didn't seem to be amounting to anything.

Day by day, she grew more resentful of Natasha, who could do all these things she couldn't. Who always seemed so collected, even when Becca woke sweaty from nightmares or had a panic attack when Natasha appeared suddenly behind her. Who wasn't unfriendly, but didn't go out of her way to be friendly either. The one sliver of balance between them was a daily thirty-minute yoga routine. It wasn't enough.

Becca hated quiet. She hated the painful twangs in her neck. She hated that she had to stay indoors, apart from the one three-hour drive Natasha had taken her on so she could call her parents from a different state. She hated that she'd had to drop her entire life. And most of all, she hated that they hadn't gotten so much as a glimpse of Steve.

Nearly one month to the day when Steve had disappeared, Becca reached her boiling point. She had been listening to music on Pandora to fill up the silence while she went between refreshing the newsfeed and watching the surveillance monitors, but after a while, all the music sounded the same.

"Do you want to listen to something else?" she asked Natasha.

Without looking up, Natasha responded, "If you want to listen to something else, you can."

"Okay, well, you put on rock music in the car. Do you want to listen to that?"

"If you like it, that's fine. Otherwise, I don't care."

"You don't care." Becca could feel the anger building, like a pressure behind her eyeballs. "Of course, you don't care. Why share your taste in music with me? You've barely shared anything else."

That finally got Natasha to look up. "I like rock music," she said, but it was too little too late.

"I don't get you," Becca snapped. "Like, I have tried and tried to get to know you. When you seemed uncomfortable sharing something, I didn't push. And yet, here we are weeks later and I know approximately jack-shit. Did I offend you? Do I annoy you? What's your deal?"

"There's no deal. And you don't annoy me." Her calm demeanor didn't slip an inch. And Becca was so done.

"I can't be here anymore. I'm leaving." She got up.

Natasha mirrored the movement. "It's not safe for you to go."

Becca snorted. "Tch. Why, because Hydra might come after me? That's bullshit. It's been a month. They don't want me. They probably never did. They just wanted Steve, and once they got him, I was nothing to them."

"If they still have him –"

"And if they don't, he's dead!" The word rung in the room, pinging off the walls like a bullet from a gun held half-cocked for too long. With its release, tears sprung to Becca's eyes. "He's probably dead, and I've done nothing but sit in a fucking room playing with these goddamn stupid computers." She kicked the laptop closest to her, and it slid across the floor, cord yanking from the wall with a spark. "I knew something would happen to him. I knew it, and I let him go outside anyway."

"No one lets Rogers do anything," Natasha soothed with a hint of wry humor. "You're not responsible."

"Bullshit. I let him die."

"We don't know he's dead."

Becca shook her head minutely. After a month? He had to be. She didn't want to believe it, but he had to be. She hastened from the living room into the bedroom, shutting the door and dropping onto her sleeping bag. She dumped the contents of her purse in front of her. There had to be something from Steve in here. She combed through the contents. Nothing.

Nothing, except a pharmacy bag. She and Steve had stopped at the pharmacy for refills on their medication before going to the apartment. She had put all of it in her purse. She opened the bag and pulled out the bottles. Penicillin for both of them. And for him, one bottle of Oxycodone. She traced the label with a fingertip. A couple of these, and she would be too sleepy to care for a while. She could sleep, put off the pain for one more night.

She unscrewed the cap and poured out the familiar tablets onto her hand. One swallow, and all that time clean out the window. But no, this wasn't the same. She would only take them once. Just once. She needed to forget. She needed Steve to be alive a little longer.

At the knock on the door, Becca hastily shoved the pills back into the bottle and threw the bottle into the bag. "What?"

"Can I come in?" Natasha asked.

She almost said no, but she hadn't expected Natasha to come after her. So instead she wiped her eyes and said, "I guess."

Natasha entered the room and stood near the foot of her sleeping bag. It was the second instance in which Becca could ever remember her looking even remotely uncertain. The crack in her cool exterior made her indicate the floor without thinking. Natasha took a seat there, although two or three feet away. This time Becca wasn't talking first. If Natasha had something to say, she could say it.

And she did.

"I know I haven't been the best roommate. And I'm not usually this difficult to get along with. But that's – that's because usually I'm pretending to be someone I'm not. I see someone and I see their weaknesses. I find out what they want, and then I become that person. I know that sounds… impersonal, but it's the way I was trained. And most of the time, it makes things easier. But it's harder with people like you."

Becca tilted her head, her neck giving a sharp reminder not to move it so much. "People like me?"

"People who are nice," Natasha elaborated. "People who genuinely care about other people with no strings attached. You might need other people and you want to be liked, but that doesn't mean you don't go out of your way to take time for strangers."

Was that how Natasha saw her? Becca wasn't sure how she'd gotten that from their time in the apartment. And there was a foreign quality to the way Natasha talked about being nice, like it was some rare, prized quality. Becca thought more people had kindness in them than not.

"You make being nice sound so weird."

Natasha shrugged. "It's less 'weird' to me than it used to be."

"I don't think yelling at you was particularly nice," Becca mumbled, abashed at her outburst.

"You're under a lot of stress. I was expecting something like that a lot sooner."

"Oh." Becca rubbed her arm awkwardly and looked away. "I'm sorry. And I appreciate everything you've done trying to help me find Steve. You didn't have to do all this."

"He would do the same for me," Natasha said without hesitation, and when Becca looked back at her, she saw a flicker of emotion, a soft emotion. Not love, but respect? Appreciation? "And I think I owe him this much."

Becca bit her lip. She was so afraid to hope, and yet she couldn't help herself. "Do you really think he's still alive?"

"I can't say I'm sure, but…" Natasha shrugged. "I think that if Hydra had killed him, they'd put his body where everyone could see."

If there was a chance, they had to keep looking. "Then I won't give up."

Things were easier between her and Natasha after that conversation. Not miraculously easy. Natasha didn't open up about her whole life's story all of the sudden. Rather, it was little things. An offer of advice on perfecting a yoga posture. Volunteering a funny story about a mission. A smile. Becca grew to understand why she would have gotten along with Steve. They were both strong, silent types, but with a sense of humor. And for all Natasha had made about her being nice, Becca thought she had a kind streak, too.

Aside from their interactions, Becca found herself watching the surveillance footage when she hit a dead end, which was often. She grew to recognize several people, even making up stories for them and – if Natasha was out – having conversations with them, just to have someone to talk to. It sounded insane, but sometimes it was the only thing keeping her sane.

There was the thirty-year-old mother of three, who secretly loved hockey and knew how to juggle. There were the two college sophomores with an unrequited love story that would break anyone's heart. There was the man with the black baseball cap who never showed his face, too ashamed at becoming recently homeless. There was the little old lady carrying on an affair with the hot banker who she admired from the window as he biked to work.

Becca was sitting in front of the apartment surveillance laptops, waiting for the banker to bike past when one of the other laptops pinged. She had never heard that sound before and jumped. What the hell? She glanced at the other laptops. Natasha had gone to sniff around a possible lead, so she had no one to ask about the pinging noise. The soft ping sounded again. She focused on the sound. It was coming from the hacked security footage laptop.

She scooted over to it. And stopped breathing.

Steve.

After two months without a seeing a hair on his head, seeing him whole and alive didn't feel real. She reached out and touched the screen as though it might prove to be a mirage. But the screen was solid. She laughed, hit with a surge of giddiness. He was alive.

And in his Captain America uniform. Not the dark blue S.H.I.E.L.D. version, but one similar to the original uniform, if somewhat sleeker. The fuzzy feeling of happiness at the sight of him grew sharp edges as she noticed he was flanked by two men in army gear. She leaned into the screen. Steve had this grim set to his mouth that she didn't like. She would have tried zooming in or out to get an idea of what might be happening, but Natasha had never explained how to use the laptop because there hadn't been a need. Normally, Becca wasn't afraid to click buttons, but if she lost the feed, she might not be able to find him again. She did have a location, displayed in a side bar along with coordinates.

Steve was in D.C. Either he had never left or… something else was happening. Becca knew in some part of her brain that she could call Natasha, who had left a phone in case of emergencies, but she couldn't tear herself away from the screen. She watched as Steve approached an office building with the other soldiers. People stopped on the street to stare at him, pulling out phones. Others hastened away, the sight of a superhero usually a precursor to impending disaster.

The soldiers pulled out guns, each jerking movement the sign of a shot being fired, and Becca trembled in trepidation.

A man came into frame, older, with a pressed suit. He was likely a politician considering the location and the bodyguards who went down under gunfire, but she wasn't good at putting faces to names in politics. Steve would know, and he was headed straight for him. The man's lips moved soundlessly; his hands were raised in surrender. Steve didn't respond. He took the man's arm and shoved him against a car. The man was still speaking, his face twisted in confusion and fear. Faced away from Steve, he didn't see the shield come up. Or come down.

His head tumbled across the roof of the car.

What the fuck? Becca blinked at the screen in shock. What the fuck? Steve had just decapitated that man with his shield. The move was so brutal, so extreme that she couldn't reconcile it with her image of Steve. She knew he had killed people, but this… this was horrifying. And worse, he had no expression on his face. No guilt, no resignation, no determination. Nothing. His face was a blank mask as he dropped the man's body.

This couldn't be her Steve. He disappeared for two months and showed up out of nowhere to decapitate someone who had clearly been pleading for their life? It didn't make any sense.

Then, things got stranger.

He let go of the body of General Alexander, and it crumpled at his feet. Screams, shouting, pounding feet running away, all of it rolled over him. His orders had been to eliminate the director of the NSA in the quickest manner possible. He had followed those orders and, pending a successful retreat, the mission would be a success. They were one step closer to achieving a better world, one that would not answer to a corrupted agency like the NSA. At least, that was what Dr. Henson had explained to him.

They needed to make their retreat before reinforcements were called, all of the closest obstacles having already been removed. He turned, but in the corner of his eye, he saw one of his fellow soldiers, Sergeant Bracken, kick the body with the faint hint of a smirk.

It slammed into him without warning. Rage. Like a living animal bursting inside him, clawing, stretching its wings.

He punched Bracken smack in his jaw. The sergeant roared in pain, clutching the side of his face. Blood dripped from his mouth, a tooth falling from between his lips. He raised his fist for another punch, but Sergeant Alile grabbed his arm.

"This not part of mission, Captain," said Alile, brows pinched in worry.

He wanted to punch Alile too, and Bracken again. He wanted to beat his fists against everything surrounding him. The rage inside him howled to be set free, but at the sound of approaching sirens, he leashed it. "Let's go."

They sprinted back to the car. At full speed he reached the car first, surveying his surroundings for potential threats as he waited for the sergeants to catch up. He took the backseat, and they sped off. The sound of police cars gained on them, the sirens wailing in his head which still throbbed with rage.

The first cars to reach them were not the police. They were black, sleek, and speeding towards them with precise maneuvers. He reached into a bag at his feet and took out a grenade. He waited and watched.

The back windshield shattered under gunfire. He threw up his shield, deflecting the bullets. Still he waited. Two cars. Three. Five. Seven. Any moment now the black cars would try to surround their car, along with the squad of encroaching police cars. He flicked the grenade pin, took a split second to aim, and threw.

The blast caught three of the black cars and two civilian cars full force causing a massive road block. Alile spun the wheel, turning abruptly to avoid smashing into a police car. Bracken had leaned out of his window and was shooting at the tires of cars within range.

He climbed out through the back windshield, the pressure of glass shards raking along his legs. Holding onto the sill for balance as the car swerved, he made a calculated throw with his shield. It ricocheted off a police car, the car spinning out and getting hit long ways but the two cars behind it. The shield spun back to him.

"Captain! The water!" Alile shouted.

He turned. The Potomac had appeared, the surface glinting peacefully. He clambered back inside. Bracken rolled up his widow.

Alile pushed a button and a grinding buzz vibrated in the car as new glass replaced the back windshield and metal shifted and rejoined. The sergeant hit another button. Light flared and there was a massive blast, which created a hole in the traffic and the guardrail. Alile punched on the gas, and they went sailing off the road and into the Potomac.

They sank, until Alile flipped a switch and a motor whirred to life. The headlights barely cut through the murk, but a sonar display appeared in one corner of the windshield.

Riding through the gloom, he found that his rage had gone with as little warning as its appearance.

They did not speak on the ride back to base, not even when they changed cars. Alile parked in what had once been a stable, and they were admitted into the bunker.

Dr. Henson stood waiting for them. She had a hard expression on her face. They formed a line in front of her. Her eyes didn't move from him. "Bracken, Alile, you are dismissed."

They left to their rooms to clean up and presumably sit on their cots until they were summoned. That was how he spent his time when they weren't training.

Dr. Henson demanded, "I would like to know why you thought it necessary to punch Sergeant Bracken."

"It wasn't necessary," he admitted. His punching Bracken had not furthered their mission in any capacity.

"Then why did you do it?"

"I… was angry."

Dr. Henson's eyes narrowed, her look becoming more critical. "And why were you angry?"

He frowned as he thought, searching for a reason for this feeling. The emotion had been so strong. Usually he felt nothing close to that rage. He recognized emotion in others, but it seemed a distant thing from him.

"I'm not sure. Bracken kicked the body –"

"General Alexander's body, you mean?"

"Yes, ma'am. He kicked the body, and then I punched him."

"Hm." Dr. Henson touched his forehead with the tips of her fingers, eyes darting like they could see into his head. "Out too long," she murmured. "Or perhaps the perfected serum has a faster healing capacity. If only I could cut out a piece without possible damage." She lowered her hand. "Change into your uniform – no shirt or boots – and wait outside your room when you are ready."

He nodded and went to his room, which he shared with several of his fellow soldiers. He removed his suit, folded it, and put it all away in a box at the end of his bed. He put on gray sweatpants and stood at attention outside his door.

A few minutes later a man in a lab coat who he had seen passing through the hallways came for him. He was brought to a room containing a large chair with a metal contraption. He got an odd feeling looking at it, a nervous feeling. Dr. Henson stood beside the chair.

"You look anxious, Captain," she noted. "We'll take care of that, and your anger. And you won't remember a thing."

Author's Note:

A lot of time passed in this chapter, but I didn't think it was necessary to stretch out two months of Becca and Natasha staring at laptops. And we already saw last chapter what Steve did in those two months. Now he's out, but there still problems... which we'll pick up on next week!