Fair warning, this chapter is very medical. Subsequent ones are not.

"What? Sorry, copy, but what happened?"

"I don't know. He's down, he's gasping, he can't get up. I'd say it was cyanide, but it can't be."

"You're only half a mile from the border."

"Gulliver, I can't carry him. They'll be coming after us. You have to come and get us. It's half a mile. How much of a fuss is Mexico going to kick up?"

"You take the stick for me if this goes bad. We're coming in."

"Out." Romanoff looked back at him, she dug two fingers in to the side of his neck. He could feel his blood pulsing against her fingers. The pain in his chest was unbearable, the muscles in his body wall burned with every desperate breath, but he still couldn't get enough air.

He had no idea how long it was before he heard a helicopter somewhere, getting nearer. Romanoff didn't look worried, so that had to be Gulliver. Wind from the blades picked up dust from the ground, he coughed against it. Rogers couldn't even cover his mouth. The wind stopped and someone else ran up to him, they and Romanoff carried him together in to the helicopter. He still couldn't move.

"Where do we take him?" Someone, a man, called.

"He needs a doctor, isn't that obvious?" Romanoff spat.

"There's a civilian hospital in Van Horn, the question is do we go to that do we go three times the distance to a SHIELD base, he's not exactly Jo Bloggs, is he? He might need someone who's used to dealing with weird stuff."

"How fast can this thing go?"

"She's made for speed, twenty minutes to base? A little over? The wind's on our side."

"Get a line to a medic." Another voice suggested. "Ask them how much time they think we've got."

"Head for SHIELD until they tell you not to." Romanoff called. "And get me that line."

"Gulliver to Arachyra, request a secure line to a medic on Carlsbad base, emergency."

"Copy Gulliver, just a minute." Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes like this, maybe longer. Surely at some point his body would just give up, surely he couldn't keep this up. It hurt too much.

"Guliver, set a radio to SC 4, there's a medic waiting for you." Someone passed something back to Romanoff.

"Romanoff to medic."

"Medic receiving. This came through flagged as an emergency. Is that right?" A woman's voice, distorted by distance.

"Yeah."

"OK, who is the patient?"

"Rogers, Steve Rogers."

"He's not normal is he," The medic shouted something across the room, miles away. "OK, does he have a pulse?" Romanoff grabbed his wrist.

"Yeah, fast as hell."

"Breathing?"

"Gasping like he's had cyanide."

"Conscious?" A hand advanced towards his eyes, he blinked.

"I don't think he can talk, but he's awake."

"OK, do you know how to check an airway?"

"Yes."

"Do that." Romanoff pushed him fully on to his back, put a hand under his neck and lifted, tilting his head back. Nothing happened. "Any better?"

"No."

"OK, say 'now' every time he takes a breath in." For a few seconds, Romanoff did. "OK, that's enough. Pull his lip down and tell me what colour his gums are." She pushed his top lip upwards.

"I don't know, kind of normal."

"He's not red?"

"No."

"Well that rules a couple of things out. Pinch his lip or his hand until it goes white, then tell me how long it takes to turn pink again." She pinched his fingertip, hard.

"Two seconds? A bit over?"

"Right, get his pulse again and tell me when you have it, go for the wrist." Rogers felt her hand on his. Surely he could not survive like this. He was going to die. He had to be going to die.

"Set."

"Start counting… now." Everyone waited in silence. "And stop."

"58."

"232 per minute. Holy cow, his resting's only 46. Right, look carefully at his breathing. Presumably his abdomen is moving as well as his chest."

"Yes."

"When his chest moves out, what does his abdomen do?"

"Moves out."

"Good, patent diaphragm always helps. For now, he's probably gasping because he needs oxygen. Most SHIELD choppers carry a cylinder with a mask on it. Go find it, set it to 50% and hold the mask on him." Romanoff dropped the radio and jumped up. "I'm going to stay on this line until I come up to the helipad to get him." Romanoff reappeared with something in her hands. She pressed the mask over his mouth and nose. The air it gave him was cold, really cold, but it seemed to ease the burning in his chest a bit. The doctor was right, this helped. His limbs were still like lead, his head was still spinning, his whole body was still cramping and burning, but it was better with the mask than without.

"Mask's on him, now what?"

"Can you get him on his side? Do you know what the recovery position is?"

"Yeah." She dropped the radio again, slid her hands under his far shoulder and pulled. He tried to help her, to roll himself over, but he couldn't. He couldn't even do that. She pulled his limbs around to stop him from rolling back over, one leg propped in front of him, one hand by his head.

"He still gasping?"

"Yes."

"OK, there's not a lot more you can do for now. Just stay with him, keep him calm. If anything changes, just say so."

Rogers lay there, chest heaving, burning, still unable to move, for what felt like a very long time. He didn't know if he'd be worse without the oxygen, but he didn't seem to be getting better. It didn't seem to be any easier to breathe. One of Romanoff's hands stayed on his shoulder, just letting him know she was there. There was nothing more she could do, she'd tried to help him, but maybe there was nothing she could do. Maybe they'd done something to him in the past few days that would kill him. Either way, someone knew what he was doing. Someone was in control of this, and cared about him deeply. God knew how this was going to end. All Rogers had to do was trust him.

There was a bump. The side of the helicopter opened, the blades slowing down. He could hear people moving around, running towards him. Romanoff got up and backed away.
"OK, pick him up." The same woman's voice. Multiple pairs of hand on him. He wanted to help them, he tried to get his legs under himself, to stand up, but he couldn't make himself move. He couldn't hold his body where he wanted it. The hands lifted him on to a table. The table began to move. "Right, Feretti, doors, Mortimer, CVRS, shout if he's getting worse, Page, keep the oxygen on him. Tell me what happened."

"I don't know what else I can tell you." Romanoff said. "We were running, not very fast, he stopped, he fell down, he couldn't get up, he was struggling to breathe."

"Could you hear his breathing before he went down?"

"No." They were indoors, somewhere with bright, white light.

"Ma'am, he's got one heck of a skin tent." A hand grabbed the back of his hand and pulled at the skin.

"Huh. You weren't kidding." A hand pulled at his eyelid, he recoiled, the hand held on and felt the inside of his eyelid. "Mortimer, what's his pulse profile?"

"Narrow and short."

"Page, get bloods for a PCV, electrolytes and metabolites, let's see if we can't figure out what the hell is going on here. Feretti, get him on a monitor." A flurry of movement, hands on his neck, his chest, one of his arms.

"I can't get a vein up."

"No wonder, his BP's 88/41. Go for jugular, but mind his trachea, and don't forget the extra EDTA." Pressure, then a prick in his neck "Heart rate's over 215, on 50% O2 and still gasping. Take the mask off him for a sec, let me listen." They pulled the oxygen mask off his face. The pain in his chest redoubled almost immediately. He couldn't breathe. He cried out and clawed uselessly for the mask. He needed that. He couldn't breathe. "OK, you are way more conscious than I thought you were. We will give it back in a second, just try to breathe normally." He couldn't. There was just no way he could. "Can anyone hear an obstruction?" No one answered. "This is physiological. Feretti, get me a catheter and one unit of isotonic heparinised saline, in that order, and double the heparin up. What's his O2 sat like?"

"Peachy."

"OK, Mortimer, get the PCV going, he looks hypovolaemic." That didn't sound good. The mask was put back over his mouth. If he'd had the breath to spare, he'd have asked if he was going to die, but he couldn't. He couldn't get enough air. "Page, keep an eye on his head, tell me if he passes out." He wouldn't though. For all that his chest was burning, cramping pains running the length of his body, he was alert. He could see and hear and understand, though that was all he could do. His body would not give up. It was trying to keep him ready to fight. Would he just die before it let him stop?

"Catheter?"

"Perfect timing, his veins are a mess." A prick in his left arm. "Drip line?"

"Done."

"His hands are like, white."

"All hands off him, now." There was a pause. He closed his eyes. Whatever happened, this was out of his hands now. There was no point in fighting it.

"Hey." Someone tapped the side of his nose. He twitched. "Stay with us, OK?"

"What was his heart rate when he came in?"

"215."

"203 now, we're winning. Has the serum tube clotted yet?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Get a blood pH." The speaker appeared by his head. She was maybe fifty, short, greying hair. She laid a hand on his forehead. "Stay with us, OK? I know this feels bad, I know this is scary, but we seem to be winning right now. We're gonna get you through this."

"Heart rate's down to 199, BP 98/47."

"See? We're winning."

"Ma'am, he's acidotic."

"Thought so. No bicarb, we'll only mask it. Any news on that PCV yet?"

"Just coming."

"Mortimer, get the electrolytes and metabolites going."

"Oh holy… his PCV is pushing seventy."

"Ramp up the fluids. His normal is fifty-odd, so that's not as bad as it looks."

"And, ma'am, you need to look at this." The doctor turned away.

"Huh. Cream top. Mortimer, shout his blood glucose as soon as you know it. I'm willing to bet he's way under. Page, get me 10ml injectable isotonic glucose in the mean time." Someone else, someone not wearing a white coat, wearing all black, appeared at the edge of Rogers's vision.

"Would someone kindly tell me what the hell is happening here?" Fury's voice.

"Believe me, Director," The doctor said, "if I knew, I'd tell you."

"Doctor O'Malley," Fury replied. "do you mean to tell me that you've had one of my most valuable agents down here for ten minutes running every test you can think of and you still have no idea what's wrong with him."

"We have more of an idea than we did ten minutes ago. We know that there is nothing physically blocking his airways, we know he is or was very hypoxic and acidotic, we know his blood volume is on the floor. All three of those thing we are addressing as fast as we can safely."

"How long until he's fit for debrief?"

"Again, Director, if I knew, I'd tell you. He is improving, HR is down to… 184 and his blood pressure is climbing. I'd say don't hold your breath."

"Are we talking today?"

"Probably."

"Before lunch?"

"Probably."

"Rogers," Fury's face appeared in his field of view, upside down. "if being frozen solid didn't kill you, I don't see how this can. You're OK." He nodded once. He was coming through this, the burning pain was easing too. He had less trouble believing it now; he'd be OK. Fury disappeared again.

"Blood glucose is 2.4 mmol per liter."

"OK, give him 200ml dextrose IV, in the bag. If we've found all the problems, he should pick up fast, and let's take the O2 down to 40%."