Firstly, I'd like to thank zxnightfox for writing those reviews. I'm am extremely inconsistent with updating, though your comments always make my day, so thanks.

Secondly, after some more research (which I probably should've done more carefully before), I realized I mixed up the HYDRA bases between the Swiss Base that CATFA starts in with the Austrian Base which Bucky and the 107th regiment are kept in. I have since fixed this mistake if you'd like to re-read. All I did was change the headers. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Finally, I hope you enjoy this next chapter. So far, they've all been really short as I've been trying to construct the setting around the key characters without spoiling anything. Let me know if there are any blatant issues I'm missing.

:)

Swiss Alps HYDRA Headquarters, June 16, 1943

His silhouette was cast stark against the window, his forehead mere inches from the glass panel which ran the entire curved length of the Swiss headquarters. The snow had melted over a month ago, giving rise to Spring and the fresh blooms which sprouted in every crevice in the valley. Yet it was cold. His breath fogged up the glass as was normal in these high altitudes. Above the rough and haggard peaks of the alps which cocooned the base, he could just make out the auburn hue dowsing the sky in a plethora of shades of purple and orange, tainting the sparse clouds pink as the sun slipped below the horizon, marking the end of the eventful day. His eyes narrowed and focused on his reflection, pale skin, sharp features. The perfect soldier. That was what he was meant to be. How did it come to-

"Sir?"

Rolling his shoulders back, he turned around steadily to take in the doctor. His large circular glasses were perched on the top of his head as he aimlessly fumbled with his fingers. Fear. Control. Perfect.

"Yes doctor?" The title was almost a mockery. Of course whilst he was the leading scientist in biochemistry and genetic engineering, he was merely a tool with a means to an end.

"The subject's vitals are stable, however I fear if we relocate to another base, we may be risking the security of…"

Always the fumbling doctor. Schmidt had turned around once again, glancing over the terrain. This base had been a gift from the Furah himself however, if he, or any of his associates for that matter, were to find out what was transpiring here, the weapon and all that had been accomplished would be shut down. No, this had to be handled with care and secrecy. Which was why the weapon had to be moved. Moved to another base where it would not be found, not by chance at least.

Zola was still prattling on when Schmidt, not caring to face the man behind him, stated in a declarative tone, "The decision is final, doctor. Prepare the asset for relocation. You will accompany the entourage to Austria."

Zola was silent for a moment before nodding and following the soldiers back to the lab. Power. That is what defines a strong man from a weak man. And a strong man is only as strong as his weakest asset.

…

Camp Lehigh, practice field, June 16, 1943

"Recruits, Attention!"

The camp was adorned with rows upon rows of barracks, musky sheds that showed the strength of the sun's beams through the scars of peeling paint. They were long and narrow, each with double doors at the front of the barrack, leading out to a common pathway that had once been green and lush with vegetation but, from the frequency of cadets who had passed through these routes over the past two years, had been trampled into dirt. Past the nightlocks, there was a common mess hall, brick laden and large, built to house the recruits during meals. It was locked as it was, by eye, not past 1200. The day's rations had been distributed upon arrival, along with the green camouflage uniforms and additional army grade equipment. Most of which had been dumped in duffle bags beside the now assembled recruits.

Eleven men stood in a straight line, faces forward, feet planted. All of the new recruits were lining up on the practice field in their respective platoons. This one in particular was the 1st Infantry Division's 26th Infantry Regiment and before them stood a woman in army attire and a notebook in one hand.

"Gentlemen, my name is Agent Carter. I will be supervising your induction today. To begin with, I shall need you to complete this document."

Forms attached to clipboards were circulated through the single row and, at a glance, Steve could make out the heading of the document: "Last Will and Testament". Two of the men to his left appeared nervous scanning through the document, their faces slightly ashen. Steve on the other hand was not fazed. He had nothing to lose.

As the signed documents were collected by the training officer, one of the recruits spoke up, "What's with the accent, Queen Victoria? I thought I was signing up for the U.S. Army." This man was mean and entitled and cruel. He held himself in such a way as if he were above everyone else. As if he were anything more than a number on a spreadsheet.

Carter was unfazed, her attention now drawn completely to the recruit. "What's your name, soldier?"

"Gilmore Hodge, your majesty."

"Step forward, Hodge."

Steve observed from a few feet away as the recruit, Hodge, replied suggestively. "We gonna rassle? 'Cause I got a few moves I know you'll like."

It was men like these that he detested the most and, on more than one occasion if the bruising on the cheek was anything to go by, had resulted in short-lived fights in alleyways. Steve's brow furrowed as he contemplated his new status, or lack of, and the consequences of stepping in. No sooner had he thought this, had Agent Carter landed a punch unbecoming of her figure, colliding with the bridge of Hodge's nose and sending him falling to the ground in shock.

Steve couldn't contain the smirk that forced its way onto his face. Carter, however, showed no emotion other than a touch of fatigue as she flattened her uniform.

Unbeknownst to her or the recruits who's attention had been focused on Hodge, another man possibly in his late fifties was standing behind her. "Agent Carter!"

Carter spun around quickly before nodding slightly, "Colonel Phillips." The rest of the men regained their composure as they leapt to attention. Behind Phillips, Steve could see Dr Erskine trailing behind. Erskine was an old man. His hair had thinned out and turned grey, and his skin had wrinkled like the spine of a well-read book. For that is what he was, in essence. Well-read. Educated. But unlike so many others in his field, Erskine hadn't let his knowledge change him and whilst to many, he resembled the mad scientist, his eyes gave way to his compassion and empathy. It was because of Erskine that Steve had been given this chance.

Phillips however, was a man of war. Rough and dry. "I see you're breaking in the candidates. That's good.". The colonel's attention turned to the recruit who was still on the floor harbouring a bloody nose. "You. Get over these in that line and stand at attention until somebody tells you what to do."

Hodge quickly scurried back, any pain that remained, forgotten, as he once again joined the ranks. Phillips now stood before the cohort taking in every candidate as he began to stroll down the row, "General Patton has said that "wars are fought with weapons and won by men." As he continued his slow walk he stopped at Steve, taking in his sickly appearance before looking towards Erskine. When Erskine gave no response, he continued with a slightly more exasperated tone, "We're going to win this war because we have the best men… And because they are going to get better. Much better."

A scrawny, war-ridden man marched up to the platoon and Phillips introduced him as, " Sergeant Michael Joseph Duffy". He was thin-faced and had dull grey eyes- as if the war had drained him of his lively energy. He stood, hands firm by his sides, face forward, measuring up the platoon before him. Duffy then turned to Phillips and they both saluted each other as was custom of the army mannerisms. Phillips concluded, "I leave you, Sergeant Duffy, in command of this platoon. I trust your rigorous training regime will whip these men into shape… they need it," before he once again saluted the sergeant and marched off to oversee the other platoons. Agent Carter followed closely behind.

Duffy turned back to the platoon, rolled his shoulders back and scanned the faces of his new recruits, "ATTEN-TION!" The command echoed, causing a chill to run up Steve's spine.

"This Infantry will run at quick time around the camp for the next 15 miles. Is that understood!"

A resounding chorus of "Sir" was heard shortly afterwards and as the platoon performed a right turn and began to run in a single straight line, leaving the almost forgotten duffle bags behind, Steve couldn't help but feel somewhat nauseous.

And so it begins.

…

It was about mid-day. The sun was beating down on the bustling army base. Soldiers marched in formation, their boots crunching on the gravel, leaving dust in the dry New Jersey air. In the distance, Officers were barking orders, and the sounds of gunfire could be heard echoing from the firing range. Colonel Phillips and Dr Erskine had been patrolling the base, pausing now to inspect a platoon of particular interest, "You're not thinking of picking Rogers, are you?"

"I am more than just thinking about it. He is the clear choice."

"When you invited a ninety-pound asthmatic onto my Army base, I let it slide because I assumed he'd be useful to you. Like a gerbil. I never thought you'd pick him."

As the Colonel continued, the training exercise before him caught his attention. The infantry was doing a mandatory fitness regime; right now: pushups. Almost all recruits descended and ascended in time with Agent Carter's calls. Almost. For before Colonel Phillips, struggling to pull himself up, was the very soldier that was at the centre of their heated conversation. Rogers.

"You put a needle in that guy's arms, it's gonna come out the other side."

Almost as Phillips said that, no later did Rogers collapse. "Look at him! He's making me cry."

Yet, the doctor was quick to interject, "I am searching for qualities beyond the physical."

Years. Phillips had spent years on this project. And for some… some nobody like Rogers to step in his way, to pose such a risk to the success of this program, this mission, the very country's defence in this war. Why didn't anyone understand the magnitude of this situation? "Do you know how long it took to set up this project? The grovelling I had to do in front of Senator Brandt's committee?"

"I'm well aware of your efforts-"

"Hodge passed every test we gave him. He's big, he's fast, and he takes orders. In short, he's a soldier."

"He's a bully."

Phillips almost rolled his eyes at such a statement, letting only an exasperated sigh before shaking his head slightly and turning towards one of the supply trucks. "You don't win wars with niceness, doctor. You win them with guts."

"Grenade!"

The call echoed across the infantry, all eyes drawn to the metal weapon tossed towards the recruits before anarchy broke loose and men began running for cover behind vehicles and protruding obstacles. Almost all the men.

Within seconds, the grenade which had been openly visible to all was smothered in green and brown. "Everybody down!"

Steve Rogers lay there on top of the grenade, his own body shielding everyone from the expected shrapnel that never came. As the seconds passed, Steve lifted his head, confused.

"Is this a test?"

...

The mess hall was a bustle of chatter and laughter. Soldiers shared stories of their childhood with one another before an eruption of laughter could be heard as another would interject a well placed comment. Many of these men had been here for a few weeks now. Many of them knew, or were becoming aware of the inevitable conclusion: they didn't have long left. As an active training camp, men came from all across the country to learn as much as they could about, and prepare them for the horrors of war before they were indiscriminately dog tagged and shipped off to war. No one ever stayed here very long. Perhaps two or three weeks. Steve could only wonder how many of these faces he would ever see again, if he'd meet them on the battlefield, fight with them, or see their lifeless bodies sprawled on the ground, their eyes fogged over.

But be that as it may, such thoughts did not seem to affect the liveliness of the hall, and if it did, they did a remarkable job at hiding such thoughts. The mess hall was much like any cafeteria. The brick building opened to see rows upon rows of wooden benches lining either sides of the centre ailes which led towards a long altar donned with metal trays. On the left side of the table, a queue wrapped around the extremities of the hall as men waited to get their meals. Steve joined the end of the queue. From what he could tell, the thirteen metal trays contained a mixture of army grade stews and potato mash. From the faces of those eating, it wasn't anything to exactly look forward to. But he was hungry and tired and food was, after all, just a means of sustenance essential to one's strength in the army.

Behind him, the rest of his platoon was filing into the hall. Many of them had become close to one another, relying on similarities to drive their conversations, even if it was only their first day on camp. Another thing that irked Steve. No one wanted to talk to him. Not that it was an issue exactly. He hadn't come all this way to make friends. but , in such a busy environment, with so many swirling conversations happening around him, overpowering his senses… Steve couldn't help feeling small and insignificant and, dare he say it, alone.

Slowly the line began to move forward, a welcomed distraction from his thoughts as he zoned into the conversation behind him. Hodge, it had seemed, had become the leader as it were of the group amongst the other recruits. He was smug. That's all Steve needed to know to deduce his character. He had spent many years around guys like Hodge to know the sort of behaviour he could expect from him, not to mention the types of conversations he would indulge in, hence why Steve wasn't exactly surprised to hear what they were talking about.

They were standing in a crowded-like circle, all facing the hulking mass which was Hodge when one of them voiced, "What of that agent, eh?"

"She's a pretty doll, make no mistake, I've dealt with many of her kind. A little bit of good teaching will set her temper right and then she'll be begging for a few more, let's just say, classes."

There was a rise of snickers amongst the men as another asked, "And what then Hodge? Think you'll really go for her?"

Steve could only clench and unclench his hands as he endured their hollow banter. "Nah, I prefer a girl with more…assets. It's only fair compensation for my end of the deal."

Finally Steve had had enough and turned around to face Hodge and his goons.

"Do not speak of her like that."

Attention turned towards him as the men separated to let Hodge through. His eyes were fixed on Steve as he took three steps until he was eye level with him, or at least would have been eye level if Hodge wasn't six inches taller than him.

"Or what, pissant?"

Hodge pushed Steve in the shoulder with enough force to make him take a cautious step back.

"I'll speak of her as I like and there's nothing some little twig-armed boy like you can do 'bout it so turn around if you know what's good for you."

Steve looked down, nodding slightly to himself before he threw a punch towards Hodge, landing him square in the face. For a moment, the area surrounding Steve and Hodge went quiet. Hodge had stumbled back slightly, not from the impact, but more so from shock. Shock that lasted not as long as Steve would have hoped for as no sooner had Steve retracted his fist, had Hodge punch Steve in the stomach, effectively winding Steve and causing him to collapse to the floor as Hodge unleashed an assault of kicks upon Steve's torso. At some point, Hodge lifted Steve up by the collar of his uniform and pinned him against to brick wall of the mess hall before whispering in Steve's ear, "Anything you'd like to say, Rogers?", before using his free hand to punch Steve in the face.

The commotion ricocheted across the hall and it wasn't long before the Colonel became involved. Hodge had dropped Steve who was now coughing and gasping for air, clasping his chest and rubbing at what he assumed was the beginning of a black eye. Hodge had turned back to his fellow colleagues who fell back into another conversation when a stern voice broke not five feet away.

"What is going on here?"

Hodge turned around to see who was interrupting their conversation again when he, and those behind him, all but paled at the sight of the Colonel.

Steve was taken away by one of the medics for a quick check up on his sustained injuries. By some miracle, his ribs were still intact, a testament to pure luck, but that did little to sway the pain that flared across his chest and face. What had become of Hodge was of little concern to him. Phillips had decided against punishing Steve for throwing the first punch, saying that his injuries were punishment enough.

At some point, Steve had acquired his meal which was, as expected, subpar army gruel which he finished off before leaving for bed. He didn't talk to anyone while he ate that night. Nor did he sit next to anyone in particular.

…

It was a short walk to the cabins. The camp was dark by now. The moon glistening. The stars were his only company. Opening the cabin door, he noticed the room was not empty. The recruits were still in the mess hall, yet sitting on Steve's cot was an elderly man he recognized to be Dr Erskine.

Steve walked across the room to where his cot was before greeting the doctor. The man looked up at him. His hair was thinning and greying, sun spots were beginning to develop across his forehead, and smile lines ran creases beside his eyes and cheaks, but it was his grey eyes that Steve focused on. The army was so dry, direct, yet here was this man, not a soldier, who'd chosen Steve, believed in Steve when no one else did. In his eyes, Steve saw the same kindness and humility that he too strived to reflect.

"Hello Steve."