[i]The sounds of gunfire surrounded him. Anti-aircraft missiles exploded and boomed somewhere off in the distance. The desert was cool at night. There were no street lamps to light his way, only the light mounted on his gun. His boots made soft scrapping sounds on the hard earth beneath them. Isam found himself looking around, confused. How had he gotten here? He was certain that he had been in Washington DC the day before, and now he found himself in a sickeningly familiar scene. 

Men ran by him, shouting and calling a retreat. Isam let out a surprised gasp as one soldier barreled right past him, not even sparing him a glance. He turned to see what they were running from, but the world suddenly became very dark. He felt dizzy. Isam spun around in the darkness, trying to find something to hold on to. He fell to his knees, his hands grasping something cold and fleshy on the ground before him. He looked up to see the dead eyes of a soldier staring right through him. He let out a quiet, shocked sound as he backpedaled. There were hundreds of dead soldiers, American soldiers, all around him. He stood, frightened and shaken. When Isam looked down at his hands, they held a bloody AK-47. 
"No," He whispered in dread, dropping the gun and backing away from it as if it were a poisonous snake. What had he done?[/i]

His eye flew open, his breath catching in his chest. Isam found himself staring at his ceiling, alone, and not surrounded by bodies. He slowly sat up and ran a hand over his face. This was the third time this week that he'd had this nightmare, and despite talking to his counselor about it, it showed no sign of disappearing. He wondered absently if this was an effect of the serum. Try as he might, he couldn't find it in himself to blame it. He knew what this was, as his counselor had pointed out on many occasions: fear, guilt, and uncertainty. Isam was plagued by it. He'd spent the last four years doing everything he could to redeem himself, but deep down, he felt as though his past would never be made up for. He'd done terrible things; unforgivable things. 

The nightmares had been bad during his first year at S.H.I.E.L.D. His counselor had worried that he was suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. However, as time went on, the bad dreams slowly faded. The guilt receded into a shadow in his mind, and he was able to occupy himself with doing the right thing. He went on many missions, saved hundreds of lives, and even thwarted a few national crises. He never thought of himself as some great hero, but merely a man repaying his dept. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D thought differently. The nightmares slowly started up again when Isam was informed of Project: Rebirth. When he was told that he had been chosen. Isam was happy to serve his new country, but he couldn't fight the fear that crept into his mind when he was alone. 

What if he fucked it up somehow? What if he didn't live up to their expectations? What if they just didn't [i]like[/i] him? During his stay in the United States, Isam had faced many prejudices. He was, luckily, very understanding about it. People feared him, and maybe they had good reason to. He'd been called names on the subway, received wary glances on the street, and god forbid he ever enter an airport. However, Isam managed to turn the other cheek. He had never let it get to him, but now...he wasn't sure how well he could handle the same treatment from America's sweetheart. He was [i]Captain America[/i], and Isam had been committing crimes against the man's country since the age of twelve. Isam feared that no amount of destroyed terrorist cells, disabled bombs, or civilians saved could ever make up for that. He was afraid that his teammates would give him the same wary glances that he received from passersby. 

Isam swung his legs over the edge of his bed and sat there for a while, staring at the digital clock on his night stand. It was six in the morning. He was supposed to meet his teammates down in the gym at eight. Isam reached over to shut off the alarm, pressing the button ever so gently. He'd already destroyed one alarm clock with his new found super strength. It wasn't easy treating everything like a fragile kitten, afraid of smashing or breaking it. He slid off of his bed, his bare feet meeting cold floor. Isam pulled off the grey tank top he'd worn to bed and began to rummage through his dresser drawer for a fresh shirt. His heart glowed through the dim light of his room, giving off just enough light to pick out a comfortable, black workout shirt. 

The heart had been impressive a few years ago, before Isam knew about the super soldier serum. It gave him the ability to run several miles without losing his breath, to maintain his muscle mass with minimum effort, to heal from wounds in mere days. But with the serum now pumping through his blood, all these things became redundant. The serum allowed him so much more, and yet, the heart stayed. Removing it now would be like removing a part of him. 

Isam pulled his shirt on over his head and tugged it down into place. He wondered if he should dress comfortably for gym, or nicely for his new team. Finally, he figured that meeting in the gym was a cue to put on workout clothes. He removed a pair of light grey sweatpants from his bottom drawer and pulled them on over his boxers. Isam grabbed a hair tie off the counter to pull back his messy curls. He turned to look at himself in the mirror, smiled briefly at his reflection, and went to put his shoes on. 

Breakfast today was the usual assortment that S.H.I.E.L.D offered its live-in employees: scrambled eggs, pancakes, waffles, toast, bacon, sausage, and so on. Isam had never been one for a heavy breakfast, but lately, he felt as though he was starving [i]all the time[/i]. The doctors had explained that the serum would speed up his metabolism, but he'd never expected to be eating half his weight at the breakfast bar. He piled his plate high with proteins and fruit. American cuisine was a lot different than that of Iraq, but Isam found that he enjoyed it. He sat at one of the long tables and played on his phone as he ate. Isam's old teammates had been sorry to hear that he was being re-assigned, but he still kept in touch with them. Long trips across the country, weeks on end spent infiltrating terrorist ranks, and down time spent in safe houses with beer and card games had made them close kin. Isam thought of them as family. He could only hope his new team would be the same. 

When his breakfast was finished, Isam headed to the gym. He slowed his pace as he reached the gym doors, then slowly raised a hand to push them open. Then he lowered his hand. Then he steeled his nerves, and opened the door. It looked as though he wasn't the first one there. The blonde hair and impossible physique were unmistakable. Isam struggled for a moment to decide what to call him. Mr. Rogers? Too formal. Steve? Too personal. 

"Hello Captain," He greeted the man with a respectful nod.