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The pain, the burning, grinding pain was breath-taking. Not just the bright, dazzling lights, blinding him; or the hissing, whirring, clanging of the tube drowning out his good ear—but the physical growing, stretching, becoming was something out of a pulp novel. His right ear popped, then a hum, then a buzz, then a roar. And then a voice:
“Shut it down!”
Was he screaming?
“NO!”
He would do this. He signed up for it. He would see it through. Keep your mouth shut, Rogers. This is nothing compared to his ribs kicked in by the thugs in 401.
“I can do this!”
They turn the dial, and the world washes white. He can smell the sweat on his brow. He can feel the rush of air filling his lungs. Then quiet.
No movement.
“Mr. Stark,” says Erskine. Clear as a bell. Like he was standing in the damn chamber with Steve. “Mr. Stark?” Erskine tries again. There’s a flurry, a flittering.
“Private Rogers?” Peggy asks, just outside the capsule. “Can you hear me?” He can hear her heartbeat.
“Yes, Agent Carter.”
“Can you get out? It appears Stark added all the bells and whistles except a release mechanism.”
“I can’t see a lever, or any buttons. I guess I’m stuck?” It’s the flying car at the fair. Hovers fine until it runs out of gas.
“Afraid so.” He can smell her perfume. “How do you feel?”
“Taller. It’s cramped in here.”
“We’ll get you out.” She smiles, fully. Tipped up on her toes to see him through the dim window. Her eyes widen. Her lips spit blood. She melts from the window’s view. Behind her, some suit with a gun.
Steve wakes with a start. Across the room, his pressed black suit glows blue in the computer monitor light. Her obituary, featuring her resolved, youthful face cuts through the dark room. He aches.