Steve Rogers floated in the darkness.
Pale hands caressed his body; he was severely burned, half of his face disfigured by flames, his clothes fibers fused with muscle, his exposed skin blistered with blood.
He closed his eyes for a long time, and when he opened them again, he found himself lying on an operating table.
"Third-degree burns on the body surface, left eye blindness... right forearm needs amputation, get me a breathing tube..."
Surrounded by several doctors, the beeping of the heart rate monitor echoed in his ears; he heard scissors snipping away some of his charred skin.
"Steve... Steve... Look at yourself, look at what you've done to yourself."
An elderly doctor looked at him, shaking his head and muttering.
"But you're not dead, right? You're always so strong."
"You are our shield, it's not time to fall yet."
...
"Blood pressure is rising..."
"What was he burned with?"
