I have returned.

Whatever Shiro expected to happen after watching the light fade from Trayling's eyes, it wasn't to be put to the side like an unwanted plaything and forced to become a dancing monkey.

The costume they stuffed him in was itchy, and tacky and so ostentatious that it physically hurt to look at most mornings. And to add insult to injury - like salt poured directly over a gaping wound - they'd given him a ridiculous title.

Captain America. The world's biggest joke.

He was nothing more than a wind-up toy, complete with his flimsy shield and tooth-rotting, brain-melting song about his non-existent exploits.

Shiro struggled not to die from embarrassment every time he had to step onto a stage. He was nothing more than a fraud.

He supposed the people working with him – his entourage – were polite enough, and none of them appeared to be bothered by the performances or the travel. The girls in particular were sweet, even if their teasing got under his skin and made him squirm.

One of the most relieving things about their group though, was that none of them seemed to care that he was part Japanese. There had been some less than welcoming reactions from some of the stagehands in the beginning, but Shiro knew that was more to do with the role he was playing, then who he was. In fact, whatever disdainful comments they had disappeared the first time they saw Shiro lift a motorcycle over his head in rehearsal.

It was nice in a way, and he didn't feel completely alone with them around him. The days were long, especially when there were back-to-back shows on, but Shiro was used to worse at his old job.

It was still annoying though, and stifling in so many ways. He rarely had a moment to himself, under near-constant watch by either his co-workers, or the military personnel they had tagged him with. And on top of all that, there was the list of rules he had to adhere to.

It was longer than it needed to be, in Shiro's opinion, but there were three that he hated with passion.

First and foremost, was that the mask stayed on. Whenever he was in public doing anything even tangentially related to his role, his full costume was required. Officially, they told him it was because his identity was supposed to remain a secret; and that giving an actual name to the character he was playing might diminish his rising fame and the message he was trying to convey.

Unofficially, Shiro knew that it was because they could hardly have people discovering that a Jap ,was the man behind their precious icon.

Secondly - and perhaps most importantly -he was, under no circumstances, allowed to write to anyone. It'd been months at this point since Shiro had seen or heard from Keith, and the lack of communication had him growing irritable with each passing day; causing him to snap at the others with increasing frequency. He always apologised after for his foul moods, but never could find the will to stop his anger from bubbling forth.

All he knew was that Keith had been sent a letter from the army, explaining that Shiro had been sent to the fronts. Shiro didn't like imagining what Keith's reaction had been to the impersonal note. They should have let Shiro write to him, to at least ease the pain the news would have caused.

It was the rule that most had Shiro gearing to leave.

And thirdly, outside of performances, he wasn't permitted to use his abilities.

It frustrated Shiro more than he would've thought, considering how little he had wanted the procedure initially. It just seemed so pointless to him, transforming him into a walking weapon, and then not letting him help with the war effort.

Asking him to not use his enhancements was like asking him to not use his dominant hand. It was like telling him to never look at the sky again. It was like forbidding him from thinking about Keith.

He couldn't not.

They didn't understand. They didn't even try.

They'd changed him into this super-human thing, and then acted like it was all something he could just turn off.

Shiro couldn't help but hear conversations happening a block away from him. He couldn't stop the way his mind whirled like a hurricane, entire thoughts and calculations dancing through him in the space between seconds. He couldn't control the way his eyes took in everything and carved it into his memory with a fine-tipped knife.

It hurt to try and suppress those things. They were a part of him, so normal to him now that he didn't even realise how unnatural he was these days.

He understood the need for secrecy surrounding him though - it burned too, being able to see the logic behind their decisions - and how much they wanted to keep him safe. Seeing as Trayling's death - assassination, murder - and the loss of the final vial of serum, had voided any chance of creating another soldier like him. It made sense that they would want to protect their investment.

But reducing him to this was just stupid. Surely some of the greatest tacticians of today could see that?

You didn't win a ballgame by benching your strongest players.

But for months his life remained unchanged. Stagnant, even though each minute was crystal clear in his head, crawling by.

The only thing that kept his bitterness at bay - that stopped it from eating him from the inside out - was the sight of all of those bright young faces grinning up at him.

He might chafe at his predicament, but the audiences loved to see him. Loved to see him punch 'Hitler' in the face, or get his autograph, or read his comics and watch his movies - and the first time he had seen those, Shiro had decided that even if her were allowed to write Keith, he wouldn't breathe a word of being Captain America to the other, because Keith would never let him live it down.

For the people watching him, he was more than a character performing on a stage. For them, he represented all their loved ones currently fighting. For them, he embodied all of the beliefs their country upheld.

They looked at him and saw a hero, and Shiro found himself incapable of breaking the hopeful fantasy that they had concocted around him.

The only thing he could do was grit his teeth, smile, and pray for release.

OoO

Being shipped to Italy to tour to the active servicemen and women was the blessing he was waiting for.

Well. Initially.

America was in the grips of terror right now, and Shiro had dutifully fulfilled his role as more and more people like him were being carted around the country.

He'd trembled with rage when he had first heard about the law passed by the government. How they were taking Japanese-Americans and rounding them up in camps like...like cattle.

For safety.

He couldn't even begin to imagine what had happened to Keith. He didn't want to contemplate the reason for their lack of communication - how even when he'd been in basic, there had been not even a whisper from his friend.

The very idea of Keith trapped in one of those camps - all because of a mother he'd never known and who had left so long ago no one seemed to remember her - made him sick. Being trapped and surrounded by strangers, all because of his blood.

And to make it worse, all of his inquiries returned unanswered. It was like Keith had dropped off the face of the earth. No matter who he asked, no matter how many times he chased after them, there was simply nothing.

All the while, the fear grew amongst the people, and the laws became harsher in response. Like some demented loop they couldn't break.

His fellow tour members learned quickly to leave him alone each time the news turned sour.

And Shiro was suddenly, privately, glad that he had been drafted, no matter how his gut clenched and his mind screamed coward. He was glad for this ridiculous job of promoting war bonds, because if the other option was internment, then he would rather risk his life fighting in some far-off land. At least then he would have the illusion of freedom.

So getting out of America was a relief in many ways, even if the thought of being in a different country – the thought of an entire ocean between him and everything he's ever known, between him and Keith, wherever he was – was unfathomable.

But Italy was interesting, and Shiro enjoyed the trip to the base, marvelling at the difference between his home and this new country. How even the air tasted different. It helped him to take his mind off of all the trouble brewing behind him.

It was relaxing, in an odd way. It felt like he was finally where he should be.

Right up until his first show, at least. Right up until he was confronted with the contemptuous reactions of the actual soldiers. Where he fled the stage with burning cheeks and disgust heavy in his chest.

Shiro couldn't even blame them for it.

He was barely even a soldier himself, and one that had never seen combat to boot. To them he was nothing more than a wet behind the ears boy, a lie and an insult in equal measure, rubbed into their faces.

War wasn't some flashy show. War destroyed. It torched and ripped and murdered without care. These men had lost friends. They'd lost family. And having Shiro prance in front of them, pretending to be some better version of them –

Whoever thought he'd be welcome here was an idiot.

OoO

He tore the mask from his face, scrubbing a hand over his bare face roughly, trying to rub away the stinging bite to his cheeks. The large overcoat he had tossed on just minutes before was too tight around his shoulders, but it covered the bright splash of colour that was his costume, and that was all Shiro wanted right now.

He squeezed himself tighter into the gap he had found, stuffed between two large crates and far away from the echoes of the scornful crowd.

This wasn't how he had thought his life would turn out when he was drafted. But, Shiro thought with a sharp scoff, things in his life never tended to go the way he thought.

He's expected to be sent to the fronts to fight. He'd been nurturing the idea that he'd probably die in the near future. He'd thought he'd never get to see Keith again.

And now he was here, after months of traipsing his way through the states, making a fool of himself. Yet he was the furthest thing from a soldier that he could possibly be.

Captain America was a goddamn fraud. Nothing more than a stupid little puppet.

These men didn't respect him. They took one look at his uniform – too obvious, too bright, too thin, nothing more than a giant walking target – and laughed in his face. After they had spat in it, of course.

Shiro raked his fingers through his hair, viciously digging his gloved nails along his scalp. He could still hear that taunts of the soldiers echoing in his ears like a never-ending reel.

He knew some of the others would be looking for him now, but the last thing he needed right now was their awkward brand of pity. God, after that show, he wanted nothing more than to find the nearest river and drown himself to save himself any more embarrassment.

"Any news on them yet?"

Shiro's head snapped up at the sudden voice, startled and worried that someone had stumbled across him. His hand automatically reached for his mask, bunching the flimsy fabric in his palm. If anyone caught him with his face uncovered –

"Not that I know, but you get how it is man. Like the Colonel'll tell us anything."

"Well they bloody well should!" The first man snapped, tone filled with righteous anger and no small amount of sorrow. "Those guys are ours! Their – some of them are my friends, dammit! We deserve to know what happened to them!"

The second man laughed bitterly, seeming unconcerned with the other's harsh voice. "Three guesses what."

Shiro held his breath, pressing his back harder against the wall of crates and praying that it would be enough to hide him from view should either of the men come closer.

"You don't think they're…"

The second man took a moment to answer, and Shiro heard a sharp scrap before he was assaulted by the scent of cheap cigarettes. It burned his nostrils, and he placed the back of his hand against his nose to try and block it out. He'd grown used to the barrage on his senses travelling through the states, but after the trip here with only the crisp, cleansing air of the sea surrounding him, the smoke was pungent.

"I think it'd be a miracle if they kept 'em alive this long. Think about it – how much food and stuff they'd have to – to waste." There was a rough sigh. "I'm not holding out much hope for 'em. You shouldn't either. Those bastards wouldn't have the decency to keep that many prisoners."

There was a loud crack as one of the crates was struck by something. Shiro bit the inside of his lip as his interest roared to life.

"It's not fair! We should be out there looking for them. Instead they got us watching some idiot dance around. Who the fuck cares about 'Captain America' anyway?"

Even though he'd already heard plenty of the same before, some sliver of Shiro still crumbled in the face of such overwhelming revulsion.

The second one snorted in agreement, and Shiro ducked his head. "You got that right. I mean, if this 'Captain America' tosser is so star-spangled awesome, he'd go out there and rescue our boys."

It was a joke, he knew it was a joke. But Shiro couldn't quite help the way his mind jumped on that. He could almost hear Keith's firm voice whispering Shiro, don't be a fucking idiot, in his ear, but for the first time he pushed that lingering presence away.

His mind rushed back over what he'd overheard.

Missing men. Captured by the enemy and – according to these two – no efforts being made to rescue them.

His hands clenched around the lip of the crate he was sitting on, only loosening his grip when he felt the wood start to splinter. Shiro lifted his hands away with a jerk, staring down at his fingers.

His eyes drifted down to the mask he had let fall to the ground, then to the shield propped up against his seat.

The empty eye-holes stared up at him. The blinding 'A' on the forehead taunted him. The red, white and blue of his shield mocked him.

Shiro's jaw set.

He waited until the two men departed, voices still low and gruff as they spoke; then he slipped his mask back on, cast aside the overcoat, and grabbed his shield.

He needed to find someone who would have answers.

OoO

Colonel Iverson wasn't that hard to track down once Shiro knew who to look for. A few harmless questions, a handful of discouraging looks, and he was being pointed in the direction of the base's makeshift command tent.

But when he did finally manage to wriggle his way inside, the man was less than impressed to see him.

Shiro bit his lip, frustration simmering low in his gut as he was once again brushed to the side with nothing more than curt response. He kept pushing though, because Shiro was stubborn to a fault and had a desperate need to do something thrumming in his veins.

He almost wished he hadn't. That he had walked right back out of the tent at the first sign of dismissal.

The plan they had to resolve the situation made his stomach convulse in horror.

And it didn't matter that he could see the regret swimming in Iverson's eyes. It didn't matter that the man said the decision would haunt him for the rest of his life.

It didn't excuse this.

"Sir, you can't do that." The protest was out of his mouth before Iverson had even finished speaking.

Whatever faint indulgence the colonel had for him died a swift death. "Listen here Shirogane and listen good." Iverson stalked into his personal space, shoving their faces close, and even with the serum, even knowing that there was little the man could really do to hurt him, Shiro felt himself shifting away.

"You're a show pony, alright son? You're nothing more than a glorified dancing girl. You might have been top-shit in basic, but that means nothing out here." Shiro's eyes dropped, tension winding through his body. Iverson slipped closer, nose-to-nose now.

"That serum might have made you super, but don't you dare think that you're a soldier. My decision on this matter is final. Now, I expect you to shut the hell up and march your ass back to your tent. Am I understood?"

Shiro dipped his head, humiliation sizzling inside and cheeks stained red from anger.

He only made it several steps outside before he had to stop, hands trembling with the urge to hit something.

Soldiers walked by him, and distantly Shiro knew that some were muttering about him. He could see the barest movements of their lips, see the derision in their gazes as they went about their business.

But he could only hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, the rush of blood fast and dangerous.

He closed his eyes and breathed deep.

All he could think about was how utterly unfair this was. There were potentially hundreds of their men in that base. Shiro didn't have the exact number of those missing, but as far as he was concerned, even one life was one too many.

And they weren't even going to try and save them?

He pressed his knuckles into the bridge of his nose, hard enough to leave a bruise he knew wouldn't last.

He couldn't just sit by and let the colonel sacrifice that many soldiers, no matter how strategic the move might be.

Some of those men would hardly be twenty-one – only a few years older than Keith.

The idea of Keith being one of those captured, of being held under terrible conditions, praying for a rescue that would never come – only getting fire and death and destruction with no hope of returning home –

Shiro cut that line of thought off just so he could breath.

He knew what he would do if Keith was in their place. Nothing would stop him from tearing that base apart with his bare hands to find him.

But he couldn't just ignore a direct order from his superior. Could he?

"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 afraid to challenge it when the need calls for it."

Trayling's voice echoed in his head, along with the man's choked last words of "Save them…you must…save my –"

Softer, but just as powerful was Keith's parting message.

"Make me proud."

Shiro glanced up and around, slipping between the first two tents he could when no one was watching. He could feel the determination settle in his bones. He knew what he had to do, and nothing short of a chest full of bullets would stop him.

His feet carried him in the right direction.

He already knew the general location of the enemy base, thanks to the glimpse he had gotten of the map on Iverson's desk – and this new and improved memory was a huge boon Shiro swore he would never take for granted. All he had to do was get there.

Luckily, he knew the layout of this camp. Particularly, where the vehicles were.

They were already close to the Austrian border, but the base was about thirty miles beyond that. The bombing would not take place for at least another three days, while the cogs of the brass were turning, and approval was being sought.

If he wanted any chance of beating the planes and rescuing those men, he would need to leave immediately.

He snuck by the guards, ears strained and eyes darting everywhere, until he found a motorcycle. Straddling it, Shiro felt something bubble in his chest that he'd not experienced in a long time.

It felt suspiciously like excitement.

OoO

He rode the bike as close to the base as he dared before ditching it, not willing to attract any attention with the noise.

It turned out to be a good idea, since after only ten minutes of creeping through the dark forest, Shiro had to hide behind the first bush he could. The trees cut off rather suddenly, giving way to a wide dirt road, and a convoy of trucks roared past his position, headlights piercing the night like daggers.

Shiro dug his gloved fingers into the bark and forced his heart to slow back to normal.

Staying low, he followed the twisting road, keeping pace with the line of vehicles. He only was forced to stop when the forest once again vanished, opening out into a vast, flat area.

Shiro's mouth dropped open at the sight before him.

The base was monstrous. A heaping mass ruling the landscape, with towering walls, bright lights illuminating the entire area, and guards patrolling in waves.

He knelt down, his confidence wavering for the first time. His eyes scanned what he could see, and the longer he watched, the more uneasy he became.

It would be impossible for someone to get inside that undetected. There was no way he could even get close enough without being seen and shot.

He searched his brain for anything, an idea, a vague plan, something that could get him safely from the tree to the base without –

Shiro blinked, struck with a bolt of inspiration. He turned his head, watching as the trucks continued to rumble past him slowly. He looked to the front of the line, and an idea unfurled in his mind when he noted that the sentries weren't even bothering to search them.

So far inside their own borders, they must think themselves safe.

Lazy, he thought as he crept back towards the convoy. But I'm not complaining.

He bounced on the balls of his feet, counting down the seconds until the last truck was going by him. He launched himself at the truck, sliding the last few metres until he was just behind it.

He climbed inside swiftly and silently, squeezing himself as far into the shadows as he could. The boxes and sacks of supplies bumped into him, casting odd shadows and hopefully hiding him from view.

He focussed on the driver, stretching his abilities and listening to see if the man suspected anything. The heartbeat in his ears was steady, and the tune he was humming never faltered. Shiro let himself sigh quietly in relief.

He sat in the dark as the truck inched along, hands braced on two boxes to keep himself from jostling about too much. He held his breath when the truck crawled to a halt, eyes trained unerringly to the silhouette that was stalking down the side of the truck, standing out starkly on the thick canvas.

After what felt like hours, he heard a man speak in German, and the truck rumbled forth. He caught a glimpse of the gate through the flaps covering the back section and smiled in disbelief.

He was in.

Shiro crept towards the back of the truck, staying safely out of the light and watching what he could see of the passing scenery curiously.

There seemed to be a lot more soldiers then he had assumed, he thought as he saw another whole patrol march by. Shiro knew then that fighting his way out of here would be impossible if he didn't have backup. He could only hope that the captured men would be fit enough to help him escape.

If they're still alive.

As he sat there, he saw walls rush by, large and grey. The truck began to decelerate again, and Shiro guessed that they were finally parking. He hunkered down, one hand coming up to grip the familiar edge of his shield. It was little more than a painted sheet of metal, but it was better than nothing.

He readied himself for the first sign of someone approaching the back of his truck. The engine turned off. A door slammed shut. Voices rose.

Shiro waited as the voices of the drivers drew further away, their tones light and casual, without a hint of suspicion, until they were gone completely. Shiro loosened his tense position the longer the quiet dragged on. He jumped when the lights suddenly cut out, plunging the whole area into darkness.

He blinked frantically, his eyes adjusting far quicker than they used to.

Shiro stayed where he was until he was sure there were no other people close by, before he pulled the canvas flap open and jumped out, his feet barely making a sound on the dirty concrete floor.

He slid along the side of the truck and darted behind the first pile of crates he came across. He held his breath as he waited for any sign or noise to indicate that he'd been discovered.

But there was nothing other than the distant sounds of machines and the rumblings of far off conversations. Shiro slumped backwards and thanked God that his luck was holding out.

He crept away from the direction the drivers had gone in, heading towards a simple door that was tucked away into the corner of the warehouse. Once he reached it, he pressed his ear to it, closing his eyes as he searched for any hint of someone on the other side.

Shiro straightened, satisfied, and opened the door inch by inch until the gap was wide enough for him to slip through. He was met with a long hallway, doors lining each side.

At a loss, Shiro walked a little further before picking one at random. The knob turned without an issue.

The room he entered was chaotic, filled with cabinets and with files strewn about. The desk that dominated the opposite wall was covered completely in half-opened boxes and a small mound of black-and-white photos.

Shiro drew closer and riffled through the top layer, his gloved fingers skimming over some of the images with a sick feeling in his gut.

The images were of men. Dozens and dozens of different faces staring back at him. But they were all wrong.

Some were strapped down, their expressions twisted in utter agony and the skin around their eyes bunched unnaturally. Others were contorted in unimaginable ways, but the pain in their eyes showed they were still alive. One was even ripped open, his chest displayed in graphic detail, head thrown back in mid-scream.

Shiro's hand slipped over his mouth to stop himself from throwing up.

They…they were experimenting on people. Torturing them. But why?

Disgusted, he pushed the stack of disturbing photos away from him. In doing so, his eyes caught on the edges of a file. He slid it out fully. It looked completely ordinary, like any of the other files littering the room, but it was the name etched across the top of it in bold red ink that had Shiro's eyes widening.

TRAYLING

Why would there be a file about the doctor here?

Shiro had known that Trayling was a high-ranking individual after seeing him with Iverson, and he supposed his status as a lead scientist would make him of interest to their enemies.

He flicked the file open, his curiosity sparking.

His heart ached at the familiar face looking up at him from the photo clipped to the first page. It was so clearly Trayling, though he was far younger than he'd been when Shiro had met him and lacked the thick beard and glasses.

The doctor's death still weighed heavily on Shiro, even with how little he knew about the man. He felt angry whenever he thought about it, how Trayling never got to see the true success of his work, that the chance was taken from him. And, sometimes, when it was late and his bitterness was hard to hide from, Shiro felt outright cheated that the doctor was gone. He would have liked to have at least one person around that could understand him.

He studied the picture, fascinated at seeing such a different version of the man. Shiro lifted the photo so that it was closer to his eyes and squinted at the grainy image – a blurry snapshot of Trayling in a park of some sort – because it almost looked like there were bruises under Trayling's eyes. But the shape was too fine for that to be right.

It didn't matter. Shiro's eyes drifted back to the file, skimming rapidly, hoping to discover just what these people wanted with the dead doctor.

Most of it was in some form of code, with only the occasional German gracing the paper. And even if the language barrier had not been a problem, the large censured parts of the document were.

Still, Shiro could feel the pages being branded into his mind. It seemed that not being able to read the language meant nothing to his brain. He wondered if he might be able to rewrite some of it later for someone else to translate.

It's worth a try.

His head snapped up suddenly. There was someone coming.

Shiro closed the file and sprung away from the desk. His neck twisted as he looked frantically for somewhere to hide.

His eyes landed on a grate near the roof and he made for it without a second thought. He only hesitated when he saw just how small the space was. Squeezing himself in there would be difficult enough – with his shield it'd be downright impossible.

Shiro looked to the door in fear, the debate warring inside him as his thoughts tied themselves in knots. The unfaltering best of footsteps in his ears made the decision for him.

He shrugged the shield off and stuffed it behind the closest filing cabinet, pushing it as far behind it as he could and making sure its brightly coloured surface was facing the wall.

It would have to do.

He swung back to the vent, pulling the grate off as quietly as he could and pushed himself in feet first, using the filing cabinet for balance. He replaced the grate just as the door shot open.

He tensed, body thrumming with adrenaline.

A woman stepped into the room, her long pale hair tightly wrapped in a bun. She was tall and carried herself with a deadly sort of grace. It was hard for him to pinpoint her age, as she seemed both far too old and terribly young at the same time.

The woman paused on the threshold, one thing hand curled around the doorframe. Her cold eyes began scanning the room, methodical and frightening.

Shiro became aware of the prickling along the base of his neck, right where the seam of his mask was. It felt like knives were being dragged over his skin, and he couldn't help by think this woman was looking through the room's walls, rather than at the room itself.

She took three precise steps forward, her body always gliding on the concrete floor, her boots clicking softly.

It made his heart pound, faster and faster as her eyes rounded almost to where he was hidden away.

"Mistress."

He barely stopped the urge to jerk when the soft voice echoed up to him. Shiro's eyes flittered about, trying to find whoever was talking.

"What is it?" In contrast, her voice was rough and guttural. Harsh. Like her throat had been rubbed raw.

The need to the find second, unknown speaker was met equally by his surprise that whoever these people were, they were speaking English. It was perfect and crisp, not a hint of the accent he would have expected from a German.

His confusion was forgotten when he saw a figure seem to bleed into existence behind the woman.

"215 is a failure. His body collapsed on itself."

There was a soft hiss from the woman. "Humans." She spat, sounding both frustrated and exhausted. "So weak. Their only usefulness is their abundance."

She spun on her heels, elegant as a dancer. "Prepare the next one. Hopefully 216 yields the results we need."

The man stepped closer, finally allowing Shiro to get a clear look at him without the heavy shadows clinging to his form.

He was tall as well, and thin, much like the woman; and has a quiet confidence to him that was somehow more intimidating than it should be. The only other remarkable thing about the man was the bone white mask he wore over his face.

Just who were these people?

Shiro had never seen anyone like them before, and the uniforms they wore – similar to the German one in design – were the wrong colours entirely. Blacks and greys, with royal purple and gold highlights running along the ends. The only thing they were wearing that tied them to the Germans was the band of red wrapped around their upper arms, with the swastika emblazoned on it.

"And what of the crystal?" The woman demanded.

Crystal?

"It continues to work as expected." The man reported easily, "Though fluctuations in its output have been noted several times. We believe it is under stress."

The woman clicked her tongue in agitation, her brows drawing into a deep frown. "We must proceed with caution then. That crystal is our only available subject right now. Without it, the teladuv will never be functional."

Shiro cocked his head at the unfamiliar words and wondered if maybe they weren't speaking English after all.

"Shall we postpone experiment 216 then? To give the crystal time to recover?"

The woman turned her back to the man, stalking further inside. Shiro shrunk away from the grate, uncertain if she might be able to spot him and hoping to God that she wouldn't see his shield.

"The fate of our operation rests on these experiments, we will continue as we have. Time is of the essence, and our enemy was rumoured to have already made a successful trial."

The masked man tilted his head, but without access to his face, Shiro had difficulty knowing what he was thinking.

"One successful trial means nothing they cannot recreate it. The commodore's death put us behind in our own work, but it also ensured that his research went with him. And, Mistress Haggar," the man continued, "if those rumours held any credence, we would have seen their agent's work by now. The lack of any sign suggests that his final experiment was a failure."

The woman – Haggar – snorted. "Yes. Trayling always liked his secrets. His unwillingness to work with others was borne from both paranoia, and fear of repeating past mistakes."

One of her hands reached over and brushed aside the grotesque photos like they were nothing, and she plucked the file on Trayling up from the desk. Shiro bristled at her casual disregard, acting like those men and all the pain they were subjected to was of little consequence.

From his vantage point, Shiro could see the cruel upwards twist to her mouth as she traced over the photo of Trayling. "And you should be less naïve than that. To believe that a lack of evidence is enough to draw an absolute from…" The look she threw over her shoulder was scornful and unimpressed. "We live in a universe of impossibilities and unquantifiable occurrences. We rule nothing out, is that understood."

She flipped the file closed and tossed it back onto the desk, stirring the other items and causing a handful of photos to breeze to the ground. She didn't even seem to register the noise they made. "Trayling's experiment may have failed, or maybe it is being carefully contained by the Americans. To assume anything would be to leave ourselves vulnerable to surprises. And I despise surprises."

They're talking about me, Shiro realised with a jolt. His skin started itching again, like he when he was surrounded by the doctors and scientists at camp, the ones studying his every move.

The masked man bowed his head, "Of course, Mistress. Forgive me for overstepping."

She appeared to loom over the man all of a sudden, despite their height difference. She was silent for a long moment, though when she spoke it was with a frigid note in her voice. "Prepare 216. We have already lost enough time."

The man bowed again, lower this time and borderline reverent. "Vrepit sa." He murmured, the strange words falling from his mouth like a caress. Then, just as mysteriously as he had appeared, the man vanished back out into the hallway.

Shiro watched with bated breath as the woman stayed where she was for over a minute, before she went for the door as well. He listened as the lock clicked into place and waited where he was until the sound of her light footsteps faded completely from his ears. Then, and only then, did he allow his head to drop and a heavy sigh to escape his lungs.

That had been far too close for comfort.

Shiro knocked the grate back out, catching it before it collapsed to the floor, and shimmied halfway out of the vent. He gently lowered the grate, then pulled himself up to grip at a ceiling beam to haul his legs free. He dropped to the ground in a crouch and retrieved his shield.

As he hefted it back into place, he took one last look around the dimly lit room.

There was something new scorching through his chest, something that tasted like anger by was so much more.

These people, whoever they were – murderers, torturer, monsters – wouldn't succeed in their horrid plans.

He was going to make sure of it.

OoO

After that almost-run in, Shiro found traversing the base shockingly easy.

This was the first time he was truly able to stretch his abilities, to push himself and test his limits, and it was invigorating. His hearing was amplified to an insane degree, and while Shiro had already noticed that, for months he'd be actively trying to block his sharpened senses. Building walls and holding himself back.

Now, he let those walls slip away.

He was overwhelmed in those first few seconds when he loosened his control, tempted to clap his hands over his ears to stop the influx. But when he finally started to filter out the unnecessary noises – the churning of machines, the buzz of electricity in the lights, the heartbeats surrounding him – and focused, he was able to dodge patrols and avoid detection without a problem.

He had been able to scale the side of a building like it was nothing. He had cleared a forty-foot jump between rooftops without losing his breath. He had vaulted over a wall without a runup.

The effortlessness with which his body moved was equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

Because Shiro had the ability to help so many people like this. He could do things no one else could, he could put himself at risk like this, because there was a good chance he'd walk away from it.

But it also drove home the irreversible fact that he was different now. Trayling had said the serum would enhance him, would push him to "peak human condition". But this was more than that. Shiro could feel it in his bones.

He didn't even know if he could consider himself a human anymore. Humans couldn't do half the things he could.

Would Keith even recognise him anymore? What would he say, if they saw each other again? Would he care? Would he sake his head and punch Shiro's shoulder like he always did; or would he turn away in disgust – or worse, fear?

The thought of Keith being afraid of him hurt in a very physical way, and Shiro was ashamed of how quickly he shied away from the idea.

His thoughts continued to spiral, so much so that finding the missing soldiers in one of the western warehouses was a relief in more ways then one. Though it was a short-lived distraction once he saw the large cages they were being kept in.

Shiro's hands shook with rage as he wrapped them around the thick, coarse bars. He could bend them like they were made of straw, he knew.

In the first cage that he went to the men that looked back at him were thin, and filthy, and they snarled at his approach.

"Who're you?" One spat, and Shiro would have withered under the sheer hatred in his eyes if he weren't struggling to get a grip on his own.

His name sprung to the tip of his tongue automatically, but here, in the midst of the enemy's territory, Shiro knew it was especially too dangerous to slip up. He choked back the urge, and instead offered what he hoped was a confident smile. "I'm Captain America. I'm here to rescue you."

The shock and disbelief were there, and when Shiro took a firmer hold on the bars and pulled, their eyes bugged out of their faces. Shiro tossed the bent and ruined bars off to the side, holding back a wince when they clattered loudly. He could hear the other men stirring rapidly.

"Let's go." He said, reaching out and hefting the closest man to his feet like he weighted nothing.

"What the fuck?" Someone hissed.

The men stumbled after him as he went to each of the cages, ripping the bars clean off or breaking the thick locks with a twist of his wrist. The voices rose slowly, confusion and excitement zipping through them as more and more were released.

Once all of them were free – up to a hundred men, Shiro squished his fury down – he climbed atop one of the cages and got their attention.

"Listen," he said, voice becoming steel, "we don't have much time. This entire facility is still swarming with guards, and if we want any hope of getting out of here alive, we have to work together." The men stared up at him, but their faces were twisted in various forms of sneers.

"I know you want revenge," Shiro started, having no idea what he was saying but hoping it would work. "I know they've hurt you and done unspeakable things to you. But the most important thing right now is getting out. I came here to save you. Each and every one of you. Because your lives are worth more than landing a blow to the enemy. But getting out of here will only happen if all of us work towards the same goal. Is revenge really worth sacrificing your chance at freedom?"

Shiro could see most of the men shift, could spot the shared looks and the weariness that overtook them.

They just want to go home, he thought sadly. "You've suffered enough." He told them, because it was the truth. What these men had gone through – those photos – everything they had endured…Shiro had never respected a group of men more than these ones standing in front of him.

Getting them to agree to his – admittedly shoddy – plan was far easier after the ferocious sparks had died down.

"We'll need weapons." One of the men piped up, gruffly. Shiro cut a look at him, but the man just shrugged. "I ain't walking out there without a gun, kid. I ain't looking for payback, just protection."

It was a good idea, he acknowledged. Shiro glanced around. "Anyone know where we can find some then?"

"There's an armoury in the main factory. We've never been able to break into it before, though." One of them said.

Shiro rubbed his chin. If the locks on the armoury were anything close to those placed on the cages…

"I might be able to." He mused.

OoO

A handful of men accompanied him to the armoury.

Shiro took down the seven guards they came across with brutal speed, necks cracking beneath his hands like twigs before they even realised what was happening.

He ignored the awed and wary gazes that drilled into his back.

He ignored the way his stomach churned every time he felt those fragile bones snap under the barest amount of pressure.

He ignored the fact that he was now a killer seven times over.

OoO

Once armed – not everyone, but those that didn't have a weapon stuck close to those that did – Shiro felt at least a little more confident about their chances of escape.

As they were starting to map out their route, five men came to him, hustling him off to the side and away from the main group.

"What –"

"They had us making weapons." One of them said, cutting him off swiftly. He was the same one who suggested retrieving the guns in the first place. Shiro glanced at him and frowned. "Tanks, in particular. But we didn't." He continued, like that would somehow help Shiro understand why they were telling him this.

Another sighed and pinched his nose. "What he's trying to say is there's no way we were going to let those bastards get proper tanks from us." This one was younger than the others, but there was a gleam in his eyes that told Shiro he was more than old enough to call himself a soldier. "We sabotaged them. With a few tweaks, those things could go 'boom'."

Shiro's lips parted in surprise, his mind already spinning down that direction. "You think we could…?"

The five matching, savage grins he got in return gave him his answer.

"We know you said no revenge, but." Pain, raw and deep, crossed the man's face. "What these people are doing here…it's better if it never saw the light of day. Trust us."

Shiro looked into their eyes and could only nod.

OoO

He assigned the six of them the task of blowing the tanks, because Shiro was the only one capable of getting them to the factory with any measure of success.

He ordered the others to wait for the signal before they started making their way to the forest and told them to head south once they were free of the base. They didn't question him, and Shiro could only hope, as he went with his group, that they actually waited for them to start destroying the tanks before making a break for it.

The six of them kept to the shadows, and Shiro felt the slightest bit of stiffness in his body unravel at having someone at his back. All these months he had felt so alone and removed from everyone else, even surrounded as he was. Having these men follow him, watching and protecting his blind spot was comforting, despite not even knowing their names.

The factory was silent as they stepped inside, and Shiro made his way to the second-floor mezzanine, glancing out of one of the large windows at the road leading to the front. Below him, the five men scurried about, prepping the tanks.

As the minutes ticked by, Shiro's fingers tapped against his thigh impatiently. So far, he had not heard any commotions that might suggest the released soldiers had been discovered, but that was doing little to calm his restlessness.

This entire mission had been going smoothly. Far too smoothly for him to not be suspicious. He couldn't help but think that any moment now, everything would go to hell.

"Cap!" One of the men called, his voice resounding even though he tried to be quiet.

Shiro turned away from the window and leaned over the railing. The men were huddled together just under him. Their satisfied expressions told him they were ready to go, though the thumbs-up was also helpful.

Shiro hopped over the handrail and landed in front of them, knees bending to absorb the impact like a cat. "Alright, good job. Let's get out of here."

They blinked at him, surprised, and Shiro could not really fault them. He was still stunned by half of what he could do, and it was his body.

He led them back towards the door, steps just a touch faster than normal. The uneasy feeling in his gut grew.

It felt like there were eyes on him, scraping along his back, peeling the layers of his uniform away and seeing every thought that had ever darted through his mind.

It reminded him of –

Shiro jerked to a halt, feeling like a hand was suddenly wrapped tight around him. He only had a split second to grunt in confusion, before he was being wrenched fully into the air and thrown back into the warehouse.

He hit the ground at an angle, his shoulder taking the brunt of his weight as he rolled over and over and over; only coming to a stop when he connected with one of the tanks.

Shiro gasped, picking himself up gingerly from where he landed. He raised his head, shaking it to clear his vision.

"Cap!"

The call cut through the nausea, and Shiro's attention immediately turned to his team. They were still standing where they had been, gazing back at him in shock. The expressions on their faces quickly melted into fear, bone-crushing and all-consuming.

Shiro scrambled to his feet, his hands going to touch his shield as he spun to face whoever or whatever had attacked him.

Another wave hit him from the side, swatting him to the ground like a fly. The air was driven from his chest, and Shiro struggled under the invisible force.

He could vaguely make out the frantic shouts of the others, but Shiro flung a hand out to stop their approach. "Get out of here!" He shouted, forcing himself to his feet and sprinting.

A screech pierced the air, and Shiro skidded to a halt when a section of the mezzanine was literally ripped from the wall. He watched, eyes wide, as it was flung towards him. His mind was frozen, but his body reacted, leaping up and curling over the top of the metal as it rushed by him.

He landed on his feet, the mezzanine colliding with one of the tanks behind him.

The force of the explosion knocked him back to the ground.

Shiro's hands covered his head, his body curving into a small ball on the ground as the rest of the tanks followed like dominos.

The noise was horrendous, and beneath the flimsy material of his mask, Shiro swore he could feel blood trickling from his ears. Heat licked at his back, and he wondered if this was what it was like to be burned alive.

It took agonising minutes for the chaos to die down.

Shiro stayed rolled up for a long time after the last of the explosion had finished, the roar of fire the only thing ringing in his ears now. Slowly, he uncurled from his position, hissing low when his wounds flared in pain. He reached for his back, beyond thankful that he hadn't succeeded in removing his shield from its place. It'd likely protected him from the full power of the flames.

He picked himself up, getting to his knees and trying to catch his breath.

Around him, everything was red.

The flames were towering as they greedily ate at their surroundings. The thick smoke that choked the air made him cough roughly and his eyes water.

Shiro had never seen such destruction in person before.

You caused this, a voice rumbled in his head, accusing and vicious. All of this. You did it.

He pushed himself to his feet, hunching over and cradling his stomach when the muscles twinged. Already he could feel his body patching itself back together. The fact that he was even able to move was a testament to how unbelievable his healing now was.

Shiro cast his eyes around, but he could see no sign of the others. He hoped that meant they'd managed to escape, and not that they were laying in pieces across the warehouse floor.

With a grimace he began to stumble his way back towards the door, dodging the ruins and flaming masses as best he could. He had to get out of here before anyone appeared to try and stop the fire.

By the time he had reached the exit, he was walking straight, and his gut no longer ached.

Shiro glanced around the warehouse, taking in the devastation one last time.

His eyes drifted up to what remained of the mezzanine, still in shock at what had occurred. He squinted through the flames, even his keen eyes straining from the sheer heat, trying to pick apart the shapes and understand what he was seeing.

The metal jutting out of the wall was twisted and broken for the most part, but there was one section untouched.

There, he spotted the woman from earlier. Haggar.

Despite the distance between them, Shiro somehow knew that she was watching him with fervour, eyes reflecting the fire around them. He shivered at the intensity of her, because the glint in her eyes was too knowing and too hungry; and something solidified in his mind.

Whatever had attacked him – that invisible force, that unbelievable display of power – he was absolutely positive that it had come from her. He knew it like he knew that the ocean was blue, or how he knew the exact curve to Keith's smile.

And it was that knowledge that allowed a small kernel of honest-to-God fear to plant itself in his heart.

OoO

Despite the early hour. Despite the long and arduous trip back to their own base. Despite the way his skin still felt blackened and bruised with wounds long-healed. Despite everything, Shiro could not deny that marching up to Iverson with the missing men of the 107th at his heels tasted a lot like victory.

Hearing the cry that went up – his title, his name now, because he was Captain America, as much as he was Takashi Shirogane – filled him with sweet satisfaction that was only second to the acknowledging nod Iverson gave him, a spark of approval and thanks in the man's stony eyes.

Shiro had saved them. He'd disobeyed a direct order, he'd stolen equipment, he'd risked his position in the army and his own freedom; but he had saved them. Whatever punishment they doled out, he would accept, because he'd go down knowing he had changed the lives of every single one of those men.

There was nothing Iverson, or anyone, could do to take that away from him.

OoO

He wasn't demoted or shipped back to the States.

He was given a medal.

But it was the respect the other soldiers now looked at him with that Shiro treasured the most.

OoO

Being on the front was both everything he'd predicted, and nothing at all like he had expected.

They could go weeks without a single moment of combat, then spend days bogged down under constant fire.

Mountain after mountain they climbed, the terrain rugged and difficult to navigate with their large numbers. But each time they beat back the enemy just a little more. They claimed land inch by inch, and the faces of the civilians they encountered were forever etched into his mind.

Shiro, more often than not, was smack in the middle of whatever attack was happening. His enhancements were a benefit he was finally able to put to proper use. He could tell when as assault was coming just by listening to their surroundings. He could pinpoint the locations of enemies just by looking closely enough, could identify the slight differences between camouflage and the rocks and the trees. He could even hear conversations between enemy soldiers if he really pushed himself.

His German improved, hand-in-hand with his Italian. His brain soaked in information at an alarming rate, and learning languages took him a matter of weeks, rather than the months or years it was for others.

He rose in rank, and his title became like a battle cry as he led the charge. He became a symbol, more so than he'd been already.

And it was hard, having to be Captain America constantly, never getting more than a few seconds to take the mask off and breath. There were only a handful of people that knew his real name, and Shiro knew he had to keep it that way if he wanted to stay and help his men.

He shouldered the burden silently, even though the reverent way some of the soldiers spoke about him had him cringing. They acted like he was superhuman, and not just because of his powers.

Sometimes, Shiro wished these people knew the real him. The one that used to trip down the stairs of his apartment when he was rushing to get to work. The one that snorted and choked on his water when someone told him a bad joke at the right moment.

The one that lov – cared for his best friend so much he thought it was going to drown him at times.

But no.

Those things belonged to Takashi, to Shiro.

Not to Captain America.

So, on the rare occasions when he was allowed to be just Shiro, he tended to do the one thing that grounded him. He wrote to Keith.

It felt like an apology for going so long without a single letter between them. Shiro wrote and wrote and wrote, but never about the costumed adventures he went on. He kept the other updated on his whereabouts, but beyond that, he kept things light. He always ended them by asking about Keith, about his life and if he was alright.

It would take weeks for the letters to reach Keith, he knew that, and it'd be difficult for any replies to get out here; but Shiro took comfort from the fact that at least one of them knew what was happening to the other.

Keeping track of the days was trying as well, and Shiro almost missed October 23rd. He actually froze in the middle of a fight when he realised it was Keith's birthday, and caught a bullet in his leg as a result.

It was over an hour until he was able to get to a medic, and by then his leg had mended completely.

Advanced healing was a wonderful thing, except when his skin healed over something imbedded in his muscle. Shiro was not sure who was more sick, him, or the young medic that had to use forceps to keep his leg pried open as he dug around for the bullet.

That injury wasn't the first he'd had to endure, but it was what prompted a meeting with Colonel Iverson about his uniform; recalling Shiro back to another base away from the frontline.

OoO

"Captain." Iverson greeted when he entered the barrack; returning the salute and waving at him to be at ease. Shiro meet the man's gaze evenly, curiously. Ever since his rescue of the 107th men, and his rather detailed report on his findings in the base – which Iverson had seemed particularly interested in – he and the colonel had been on rather good terms with each other.

"Colonel?"
Iverson gestured off to the side, where Shiro spotted a man with light brown hair that bordered on red, and inquisitive eyes. He looked familiar, but Shiro was having trouble placing the man's face – something that rarely happened to him these days.

"This is Doctor Matthias Holt, one of our leading engineers in the war effort." Iverson returned his gaze to Shiro, and there was a pointed glint in his eyes. "He was present at your procedure."

And that would be why Shiro had only vaguely recognised him. His memories from the procedure were quite jumbled, since his body had still been adjusting to all the information his senses were intaking. Now that Iverson had told him, he did remember seeing Holt at some of the terminals before he was injected.

"'Present'? Colonel, why you completely understated my involvement." Holt bounced to his feet, moving with an energy Shiro found bemusing. The man – who could hardly be in his thirties – stepped right up to Shiro and beamed at him. "I worked with Trayling to complete the serum." He held out his hand. "I'm the guy who shot you with the vita-rays." He finished brightly.

Shiro shook the man's hand, and an awkward smile came to his face. "Right. I distinctly remember screaming through that."

Holt's happy expression faltered at his words. "Ah. Yes." The man shifted and cleared his throat. "Gave us quite the scare, but you asked us not to stop." His shoulders hunched just slightly. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about that."

Shiro shrugged, because there was nothing they could do about it now, and honestly, his mind was still caught on the fact that he had asked for the procedure to continue. He'd been sure he had blacked out during that time, but perhaps his mind was simply blocking the memories.

"I've been able to do a lot of good, Doctor Holt. That procedure hasn't just helped me."

The grin reappeared, and Holt's confidence returned with startling speed. "That you have, captain. That you have."

Iverson stepped forward, "Now, gentlemen, I believe we are here for a reason." The colonel shot a look at Holt, which had the younger man clapping his hands sharply.

"Right you are, Colonel. Captain, if you'll come with me."

Holt lead them further into the building, steps light and buoyant as they twisted through numerous tables filled with bits and pieces of machinery. Shiro glanced around with fascination at what he now realised was a workshop. Iverson had said Holt was an engineer, but this was a bit more than he had anticipated.

They approached the back part of the barrack, sectioned off with a thick tarp. Shiro followed after the short doctor and Iverson, brushing the canvas aside and stepping into the next area.

When his eyes landed on what was laid out on the table, his breath caught in his throat.

It was a uniform. His uniform. But after only a moment, Shiro could tell it was so much more than that.

The first noticeable difference was that this suit had protection. It was much thicker, and the colours that Shiro had always found obnoxiously bright were muted and less obvious, while still being recognisable. There were actual pockets as well, and straps, and compartments; and Shiro noted with particular interest the gun holsters.

It was less a costume, and more a suit of armour.

It was something a soldier would, could, and should wear.

"I take from the lack of verbal response, that you approve?" Holt asked, teasing, but soft. As if he understood what this moment symbolised.

Shiro breathed out harshly, eyes unable to move away from the magnificent sight. "It's perfect." He murmured.

His simple praise seemed to be enough for Holt, who chuckled and rounded the table. "It's made with carbon polymer. Should be bullet and knife resistant, so we can avoid any other incidents that require poor medics digging around your body."

Shiro carefully walked closer, absently pulling off one of his gloves – cotton, pathetic in comparison to this version – to run his fingers reverently along the thick material. "It's perfect." He repeated, firmer, with a touch of gratitude. This must have cost a pretty penny to make, and Shiro knew he was going to put the suit to good use. Being out there in a thin cotton outfit was just another thing he had to worry about on top of beating back threats to him and his men.

With this, he could do so much more without having to constantly fear for his safety.

"It gets better." Holt said, gleefully.

Shiro finally tore his eyes away from the suit, his tongue poised to ask just how Holt expected to beat this creation, when the man reached down and pulled up a circular disk about two-and-a-half feet in diameter. The red, white and blue of it matched his new outfit perfectly, and the white star emblazed in the centre mirrored that on his chest.

It was…it was beautiful.

Shiro was reaching for it without thought, and Holt handed it over easily.

"It's so light." Shiro whispered, shifting the shield between his hands and getting used to the weight. For something created entirely of metal, it made little sense that it could be as light as a feather.

"It's made of a rare metal." Holt informed him, "Called vibranium. I…came across some of it a few years ago. When the army requested me to make you a proper uniform, I knew this would be a brilliant use for it. It's completely vibration absorbent. Stronger than steel and a third its weight. Go ahead, hold it up."

Shiro did as asked, and almost jerked away in surprise when Holt suddenly brought up a gun and pointed it at him.

The man shot at him, and Shiro ducked his head behind the shield, hearing the bang bang bang bang followed by softest pings as the bullets littered the ground by his feet.

Shiro peeked over the edge of the shield to see Holt smiling enticingly at him, gun now aimed clearly at the ground. "And hardly a scratch." The man proclaimed. "Well, what do you think, gentlemen?"

Shiro and Iverson shared a look.

OoO

The new uniform was a Godsend, and Shiro sent a letter wishing Keith a happy birthday.

He hadn't gotten a reply yet, but that was fine.

OoO

It was exhausting, slowly pressing their advantage, and the heat was finally beginning to ebb as summer was drawing to a close.

They'd made such headway in the war, and since being gifted with his new uniform and shield, Shiro had found his effectiveness on the battlefield had increased dramatically.

It was like another barrier had been removed for him. One more restraint loosened.

He no longer had to take as many precautions as before. He was perfectly able to act as a battering ram for his men, protecting them and securing every foothold they needed to propel themselves further.

Some of his men called him reckless; others, courageous.

The voice in his head that resembled Keith's called him a fucking idiot.

Shiro just wanted to do his best.

His success rate improved, and with each victory, Shiro knew his notoriety with the enemy was spreading. He could hear them call his title in warning whenever they spotted him in the field.

Of course, his infamy came with a price. Shiro often found himself the main target in combat. The number of close-calls he'd had since officially joining the war as Captain America had grown ridiculously over time. It was like he was the most sought-after prize at a carnival shooting gallery.

But even in the middle of death and pain and suffering, Shiro began to feel comfortable with his new existence.

Naturally, that was when it all changed.

OoO

He was distracted, his attention zeroed in on another man, trying to help him stand after a shock-wave knocked him to his back.

There was the whine of a plane, and a sharp whistle, and Shiro could do little more than brace himself as the ground next to him exploded in a hail of dirt. He hit the ground hard, his neck snapping back and connecting with the rubble.

His mask was reinforced, but not even that could prevent him from losing consciousness.

OoO

Waking up was no gentle transition. It was like breaching water, sudden and rushing and disorientating. All at once, Shiro was assaulted with noises and smells and lights.

He jerked forward, breath tearing out of him as his eyes rolled desperately.

He tried to move, but his arms and legs were pinned, and there was a constant low static in his ears that echoed everywhere.

"What –" He coughed, throat tender and tasting faintly of iron.

Shiro dropped his head, his neck screeching in pain from trying to hold it up. His chin rested on his chest, giving him a full view of his suit. It was covered in soot and dirt, and more than a little blood. He could see the floor from where he was, and in some hazy part of his brain, Shiro realised he was strapped to a table, propped up like he was on display.

As the seconds ticked by, he felt the fatigue that was weighing him down begin to retreat, his mind kicking into overdrive. He thrashed against the holdings, muscles straining against the metal. He could hear them creaking, but they held fast.

Shiro slumped, body trembling from the effort.

He did not know where he was, but the chill under his skin told him exactly who had him. There was no way his own country would do something like this to him, not when he was so effective.

Which only left one other possibility.

His mind bucked at the thought, but his denial was short-lived.

He had never really thought about the consequences of being captured by the enemy. He knew his enhancements were as much a danger as they were a benefit, and that Shiro's worth to America – even though it had never been explicitly stated – was almost incalculable.

And he was painfully aware that if there was no hope of retrieving him, they would prefer no one got their hands on him.

It was a sobering thought, but one he understood. Just because they'd had no success recreating the serum from his blood didn't mean that it was impossible.

Shiro had made such a dint against their enemies forces already, and he was only one man. If Germany, or any of their allies, managed to create their own version of his serum, and injected a whole army…

He couldn't – didn't want to – imagine what an entire legion of super soldiers might accomplish.

Shiro stayed there, trapped, for a long time. He tried again and again to break free, but even though his restraints didn't appear to be another more than regular metal and leather, he couldn't snap them.

It felt like hours had gone by, before he heard the lock in the door click.

Shiro raised his head, narrowing his eyes as the harsh light from the hallway spilled into the dark room. There was a someone there, silhouetted in the doorway.

The eyes that fell on him were far too familiar in their gravity, even though he had only had to endure their attention once.

Shiro froze.

"I apologise for my tardiness," the haunting voice croaked, "but so much of my attention these days is taken up by this silly war."

Haggar stepped into the room, the door closing behind her without a sound. Shiro swallowed thickly, unable to help the acute fear that bloomed inside him. He had thought in their last encounter that this woman was – unnatural. And even from a distance Shiro had felt small in comparison.

But being in a room with her, only a few feet separating them, with the full weight of her attention on him, Shiro felt like a mere speck.

Neither spoke, and Shiro found himself unable to hold her gaze for long. His eyes dropped away, and shame burned through him at his weakness.

"So, you are Trayling's final accomplishment." She stepped towards him, one hand raising and caressing the dirty star on his chest. "His greatest creation, the thing he rested all his remaining his hopes on." Her fingers shot up and dug into his chin, nails carving into his skin. "He believed you to be his salvation; that by altering your weak genes, he might succeed in saving his people."

She dragged his head closer, and Shiro hissed because he could feel the blood beginning to trickle down his jaw from where she cut him. "I believed Trayling a fool for his ideas. But I followed him here anyway. Imagine my surprise, when you all but waltzed into my lair." Her breath was freezing where it brushed over his face, and Shiro tried to yank away from her to no avail.

It made no sense. There was no way she should be strong enough to hold on to him.

"I allowed you to escape the first time. I wanted to see what you were capable of first, before I studied you myself. I wished to see how well Trayling's little experiment handled the change. If your body would break down over time, or perhaps if your mind would shatter, unable to process the influx of information."

Her grip loosened, and Shiro watched, disturbed, as she raised her bloodied fingers to her mouth and licked them. "Humans are so very fragile. But I was pleased to see continuous reports of your exploits cross my desk. I knew then that he had succeeded. The old fool actually succeeded in joining the two strands."

Shiro had no idea what she was talking about. Though it was obvious that she and Trayling had history. And it wasn't hard for him to remember her own talk of experiments the first time he had laid eyes on her. She made it sound like her and Trayling were rivals, or something of that sort.

"Now, I had contented myself with the knowledge that I would have you eventually, and so I refrained from dredging up every secret surrounding you. I wanted to have something to occupy our time together with, after all." Haggar circled around him, and Shiro struggled to keep her in his sights once she rounded behind him.

"Let us start with your name, yes?"

Shiro stared at her with contempt, lips pressed together. If she thought he would tell her anything, she was sorely mistaken.

The grin Haggar gave him was filled with violent promises. "Stubborn." She said, though it was hardly a compliment. "But for how long?" Her hand raised once more, but instead of reaching for him, Shiro could only watch in disbelief as a vibrant purple glow appeared around the outstretched limb.

"What the hell?" He whispered, terrified for those few crucial moments.

"Don't be afraid to scream." Haggar spoke, but her mouth was not moving, and the voice seemed to come from inside him.

Shiro bared his teeth, but the second that purple energy connected with him, he shrieked like hooks were being buried into his skull.

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