BROOKLYN STREETS - MORNING
Dawn broke over New York City with a golden hue that painted the familiar Brooklyn skyline in warm light. In a black government sedan, Steve Rogers sat ramrod straight, his slender frame dwarfed by the vehicle's leather seats. His fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against his knee as Agent Peggy Carter drove them through morning traffic, navigating the streets with practiced efficiency.
The enormity of what lay ahead weighed on Steve's mind. Just yesterday, he'd been another recruit at Camp Lehigh, albeit one who'd jumped on a dummy grenade when everyone else ran. Now, he was heading toward a classified procedure that might transform him into... what, exactly? Dr. Erskine had explained the science in broad strokes, but the reality of it still seemed like something from the pulp novels Steve occasionally indulged in.
"Nervous?" Peggy asked, breaking the silence as she caught his reflection in the rearview mirror.
Steve considered lying, then decided against it. "A little," he admitted. "Dr. Erskine explained the procedure, but it's hard to imagine what it'll actually feel like." He paused, looking out at the passing buildings. "Honestly, I'm more worried about what comes after. If this works, what do they expect me to do?"
"Save lives," Peggy replied simply. "Win the war."
"That simple, huh?" Steve's attempt at humor fell flat even to his own ears.
They turned onto a familiar street, and Steve's attention shifted to the world outside the car window. Memories flooded back as they passed through neighborhoods he'd known his entire life—streets where he'd grown up, fought losing battles, and learned hard lessons.
"I know this neighborhood," he said, pointing outside. "I got beat up in that alley... and that parking lot... and behind that diner."
Peggy glanced at him, a mixture of curiosity and concern crossing her features. "Did you have something against running away?"
Steve shook his head, a rueful smile touching his lips. "You start running, they'll never let you stop. You stand up, you push back... they can only tell you 'no' for so long, right?"
Something in his words seemed to resonate with Peggy. Her professional demeanor softened slightly.
"I know a bit what that's like," she admitted. "To have every door shut in your face."
Steve looked at her with genuine surprise. "Who'd shut a door on you?" he asked, the question escaping before he could filter it. "I'd figure guys would be climbing over each other to hold them open."
"Depends which door you're trying to go through," Peggy replied, her tone carrying years of hard-earned experience.
Steve studied her profile as she navigated a turn. In the morning light, her strength and determination were even more evident beneath her polished exterior.
"I guess I don't know why a beautiful..." he fumbled, suddenly realizing he was stepping into dangerous territory. "...agent... why she would want to join the army anyhow. She could do whatever she wanted."
Peggy shot him a sideways glance, one eyebrow raised. "You don't know an awful lot about women, do you?"
Steve felt heat rise to his face, but somehow found the courage to lean into his embarrassment rather than retreat from it. "You've got me all wrong, Agent Carter," he said with a self-deprecating smile. "I don't know anything about women."
His honesty seemed to catch her off guard, and he saw the corner of her mouth quirk upward.
"This is probably the longest conversation I've ever had with one," he added.
Peggy's laugh was subtle—barely more than a controlled breath—but genuine. "I find that hard to believe."
"I wish I were kidding," Steve continued. "Think about it: I don't have any money, so I can't take them to dinner. I'm... kinda short, which doesn't help. Ever. And I don't dance, so that's off the table."
"You must have at least danced," Peggy countered, her tone gentler now.
Steve shrugged, looking back out the window. "Standing on my mom's feet when I was seven. After that..." He shook his head. "Asking a girl to dance always seemed so terrifying. And then in the last few years, it just didn't seem so important. I figured I might as well wait."
"For what?" she asked.
The question hung between them, simple yet profound. Steve turned from the window to meet her eyes briefly.
"The right partner," he answered quietly.
Something shifted in Peggy's expression—a momentary softening he couldn't quite interpret before her professional mask returned. The car slowed, pulling up alongside an aging storefront.
"This is it," she announced, bringing the sedan to a stop.
Steve peered through the window with confusion. The sign above the modest shop read "Brooklyn Antiques," and the dusty display window revealed nothing more exciting than a collection of vintage household items. Two disheveled men lounged near the entrance, while a pair of men in crisp suits stood casually by a row of parked cars, trying too hard to look inconspicuous.
"Why did we stop here?" Steve asked as they exited the vehicle.
Peggy smoothed her skirt, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "I love a bargain."
—
BROOKLYN ANTIQUE SHOP - MORNING
A bell chimed softly as Peggy pushed open the door, ushering Steve inside. The interior was exactly what one would expect from an antique shop—crowded shelves of miscellaneous items, the musty scent of old furniture, and a layer of dust that seemed undisturbed on many of the displays.
Behind the counter, an elderly woman looked up from her newspaper. Her eyes fixed on Peggy with immediate recognition.
"Lovely weather this morning, isn't it?" the shopkeeper asked, her casual tone belied by the alertness in her eyes.
"Yes, but I always carry an umbrella," Peggy replied, the rehearsed exchange flowing naturally.
The woman nodded. "I suppose you can't be too careful."
"Best to be prepared for a shift in the wind," Peggy confirmed, completing what Steve now recognized as a coded exchange.
With practiced subtlety, the shopkeeper pressed something beneath the counter. Steve caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the barrel of a submachine gun mounted under the register before Peggy directed him toward a door at the back of the shop.
"This way," she instructed, leading him into a narrow hallway.
The corridor ended at a massive metal door that looked wildly out of place in the quaint shop. A Marine guard stood at attention beside it, his uniform immaculate, his expression revealing nothing as they approached.
The door slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and the guard saluted as Peggy escorted Steve through.
"Good morning," Peggy greeted several white-coated technicians as they entered.
What lay beyond the door defied all expectations. Steve stepped onto a raised platform and froze in amazement. Spread before him was an enormous laboratory facility—impossibly large given the modest storefront they'd entered through. The ceiling soared above them, supported by steel beams that ran the length of the cavernous space. Banks of equipment lined the walls, manned by technicians in white coats who moved with purpose between stations.
At the center of it all stood a device unlike anything Steve had ever seen—metal and glass, with a man-sized chamber at its heart surrounded by articulated mechanical arms and monitoring equipment. A series of massive generators hummed along one wall, connected to the central apparatus by thick cables.
"Quite a setup, isn't it?" came a familiar voice.
Jay Garrick approached from a nearby control station, clipboard in hand and a nervous smile on his face. His lab coat identified him as part of the technical team, though he looked barely older than Steve himself.
"Jay," Steve greeted him, relieved to see a friendly face. "They roped you into this too?"
"Technical consultant," Jay confirmed with a nod. "I've been helping calibrate the Vita-Ray exposure sequences. It's... well, it's unlike anything I've ever worked on."
Before Steve could respond, Dr. Erskine hurried over, his movements brisk and his expression a mixture of excitement and anxiety.
"Mr. Rogers! You've arrived. Good, good." He adjusted his glasses, glancing at his watch. "We are behind schedule. Please, this way."
As Erskine led Steve toward the central platform, he spotted other familiar faces among the personnel. Lieutenant Alan Scott stood near one of the control panels, deep in conversation with a technician. Their eyes met briefly, and Scott offered a respectful nod that did more to steady Steve's nerves than any words could have.
Across the lab, to Steve's surprise, he recognized Dr. Phineas Horton from the World Exposition, speaking with a group of scientists near a bank of monitoring equipment. Beside him stood Jim Hammond, the "Synthetic Man," no longer confined to his glass chamber but still drawing curious glances from the staff. Hammond caught Steve's eye and gave a small, understanding smile—one guinea pig to another.
"I need you to remove your shirt, tie, and hat," Erskine instructed, guiding Steve toward a changing area.
"Dr. Erskine," Steve said quietly as he began unbuttoning his shirt, "all these people—are they all here to watch?"
"To observe, yes," Erskine confirmed. "This procedure has significant implications beyond just one man. But do not concern yourself with them. Focus only on what I tell you, yes?"
As Steve changed into the provided shorts, he noticed three men he didn't recognize standing near the main platform, their postures suggesting military backgrounds despite their varied appearances.
The first was tall and broad-shouldered with sandy blond hair, wearing an Army Air Corps uniform with pilot's wings—a captain by his insignia. The relaxed confidence in his stance reminded Steve of Bucky, though this man was older, perhaps in his early thirties.
Beside him stood a rugged, powerfully built sergeant with a weathered face that had clearly seen combat. His expression was stoic as he watched the preparations, arms crossed over his chest.
The third man was different—younger, with an athletic build and an intense energy about him. He wore civilian clothes but carried himself with military bearing, and he seemed particularly interested in the procedure's technical aspects, examining the equipment with a scientist's eye.
Dr. Erskine followed Steve's gaze and offered introductions.
"Ah, you have not met our observers. The pilot is Captain Steven Trevor, SSR's aviation specialist. Beside him is Sergeant Frank Rock—originally the Army's preferred candidate before I... well, before I insisted on certain criteria."
Steve nodded to both men, receiving a friendly salute from Trevor and a measuring look from Rock.
"And the third gentleman," Erskine continued, "is Dr. Richard Tyler, who has been instrumental in refining aspects of the serum. He created a temporary variant—effective but short-lived."
Tyler approached, extending his hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Rogers. Erskine speaks highly of your character." His handshake was firm, his gaze analytical. "If this works as intended, you're about to make history."
"No pressure," Steve replied with a nervous smile.
As the final preparations continued around him, Steve became aware of movement in an observation booth overlooking the lab. Colonel Phillips had entered, accompanied by a group of men in expensive suits—politicians and military officials come to witness the experiment.
"Senator Brandt, glad you could make it," Phillips' voice carried down to the lab floor.
A heavyset man in an expensive suit peered through the glass. "Why exactly am I in Brooklyn?"
"We needed access to the city's power grid," Phillips explained with barely concealed impatience. "Of course, if you'd given me the generators I requisitioned..."
"A lot of people are asking for funds, Colonel," the Senator replied dismissively. He gestured to a thin man beside him. "Oh, this is Clem—"
"Fred Clemson," the man interjected smoothly, extending his hand. "State Department. If this project of yours comes through, we'd like to see it used for something other than headlines."
Senator Brandt's attention shifted to the platform where Steve now stood, shirtless and looking painfully thin under the laboratory lights. The Senator's eyebrows rose, and he leaned toward Phillips.
"Jesus," he muttered, loud enough to carry down to the lab floor. "Somebody get that kid a sandwich."
Peggy caught his eye and gave him a subtle, reassuring nod. That small gesture of confidence meant more than she could know.
Dr. Erskine approached, clipboard in hand, his expression a mixture of scientific focus and genuine concern. "Ignore them," he said quietly. "Politicians only understand success when they see it. And they will see it very soon."
Dr. Horton joined them, giving Steve a respectful nod. "You're doing something extraordinary today, Mr. Rogers. Jim and I will be monitoring certain aspects of your cellular response—if you don't mind."
"Not at all," Steve replied, though the technical details of what was about to happen to him remained somewhat abstract.
Behind them, Howard Stark was engaged in animated conversation with a man Steve recognized from the World Exposition—Patrick Wayne. The two industrialists were examining a bank of complicated gauges, with Wayne making occasional notes on a small pad. They carried themselves differently—Stark with theatrical confidence, Wayne with quiet intensity—but both exuded the same aura of extraordinary intelligence.
"Mr. Stark," Erskine called. "Are we ready to proceed?"
Stark nodded. "Just confirming the final settings with Wayne."
Wayne checked his watch. "I should join the senator in the observation booth. I want to monitor the power fluctuations from there." He turned to Steve with a slight nod. "Good luck, Rogers." With that, he made his way toward the stairs leading to the booth.
"The Vita-Ray calibrations?" Erskine asked Stark.
"Set precisely to Dr. Tyler's specifications," Stark confirmed, glancing toward Rick Tyler, who stood nearby monitoring readouts on a complex device.
Tyler looked up briefly. "The sequencing is programmed exactly as we discussed, Doctor. The cellular stimulation should sync perfectly with the serum's dispersal rate."
Erskine turned to Steve with a reassuring smile. "Science and industry, Mr. Rogers. The finest minds America has to offer, all focused on one purpose today." He gestured toward the central chamber. "Shall we begin?"
Steve nodded, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. As he approached the transformation chamber, he caught Jim Hammond watching him with an unreadable expression. The synthetic man gave him a small nod that spoke volumes—one experimental subject to another, sharing an understanding no one else in the room could fully comprehend.
"Mr. Rogers," Erskine said, helping Steve onto the padded surface of the device. "Comfortable?"
The machine was clearly designed for someone much larger, making Steve look even smaller than he was. The metal chamber seemed to swallow his slight frame, with significant space remaining on either side.
"It's a little big," Steve replied, attempting humor to mask his nervousness. Then, with a faint smile: "You save me any of that schnapps?"
Erskine's expression softened with genuine fondness. "Not as much as I should have." He patted Steve's shoulder. "Sorry. Next time."
The doctor turned toward the bank of equipment where Stark was making final adjustments. "Mr. Stark, how are your levels?"
Howard Stark emerged from behind the apparatus, wiping his hands on a cloth. His perfectly tailored suit seemed at odds with the technical work he'd been doing.
"Levels at 100%," Stark confirmed with practiced confidence. He glanced up at the massive generators overhead. "We may dim half the lights in Brooklyn, but we are ready..." He paused, sharing a meaningful look with Wayne before adding, "...as we'll ever be."
Steve recalled the flying car demonstration from the Expo, the vehicle crashing to the stage after a moment of apparent success. "I'm going to die, aren't I?" he muttered, but there was a hint of gallows humor in his tone.
Stark caught the comment and flashed a roguish grin. "Probably not. And if the procedure works, you'll be too impressive a specimen for anyone to remember the alternative."
Wayne approached, his demeanor soberer than Stark's. "Every precaution has been taken, Rogers. The theoretical framework is sound." He wasn't offering false reassurances, just stating facts as he understood them—which Steve found oddly comforting.
Peggy had moved closer to the chamber, her professional demeanor slightly softened by evident concern. Erskine noticed and cleared his throat.
"Agent Carter? Don't you think you would be more comfortable in the booth?"
Peggy straightened, composure instantly restored. "Yes, of course. Sorry." She stepped back, but not before giving Steve a final glance that conveyed more than words could have.
As technicians secured monitoring equipment to various points on Steve's body, Erskine moved to a central position and pulled a microphone toward him. He tapped it twice, causing a harsh feedback that made Colonel Phillips wince in the observation booth.
"Do you hear me? Is this on?" Erskine's voice echoed throughout the facility. Satisfied with the sound, he continued, addressing the assembled observers.
"Ladies and gentlemen, today we take not another step towards annihilation, but the first step on the path to peace."
Steve watched as Sergeant Rock folded his arms across his chest, his expression skeptical. Captain Trevor leaned forward slightly, his attention fully engaged. In the booth, Senator Brandt seemed to be whispering something to an aide.
"We begin with a series of microinjections into the subject's major muscle groups," Erskine continued. "The serum infusion will cause immediate cellular change. And then, to stimulate growth, the subject will be saturated with Vita-Rays."
A nurse approached with a small case, opening it to reveal a syringe. The metallic gleam of the needle caught the harsh laboratory lights as she expertly prepared the injection.
"This will pinch a bit," she warned before administering the shot to Steve's arm.
Steve tensed slightly at the prick, then relaxed, the pain already fading. "That wasn't so bad," he remarked, almost relieved.
Erskine's lips quirked in a slight smile. "That was penicillin."
Before Steve could respond, a panel slid open beside the chamber, revealing a carousel containing several glowing blue vials. The serum—Erskine's life's work and possibly Steve's future—pulsed with an almost hypnotic azure luminescence.
"Serum infusion beginning in five..." Erskine announced as mechanical injection pads positioned themselves over Steve's major muscle groups. Each pad bristled with dozens of tiny needle points, all poised to deliver the serum simultaneously.
Steve swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry.
"Four..."
Jay Garrick gave a thumbs-up from his monitoring station, confirming all systems were functioning properly.
"Three..."
Steve caught Dr. Tyler watching intently, the scientist's fingers tapping nervously against his clipboard.
"Two..."
Peggy had reached the observation booth but remained standing, her attention fixed on the procedure below.
"One."
Erskine pressed a switch, and Steve's world exploded into pain.
The injection pads activated simultaneously, hundreds of microscopic needles deploying into his muscles. Steve's body jerked involuntarily as the blue serum flooded his system. His veins bulged visibly beneath his skin, glowing with the same azure light as the vials, creating a network of illuminated pathways throughout his body.
Steve's head began to shake uncontrollably. Erskine quickly activated the restraints, securing Steve's head to prevent injury. The room around him seemed to pulse and shift, colors intensifying beyond normal perception. He could feel the serum spreading through him, a liquid fire that both burned and transformed.
As the last of the blue fluid emptied from the vials, Erskine called out, "Now, Mr. Stark."
Stark pulled a lever, and the platform slowly rotated, lifting Steve into a vertical position. He felt like a rocket on a launch pad, facing the unknown with no possibility of retreat.
The chamber's panels began to fold around him, enclosing his body in a cocoon of metal and glass. A hood lowered over his head, sealing him inside with only a small window framing his face. Through it, he could see Erskine approaching.
"Steven? Can you hear me?" the doctor's voice came through a speaker inside the chamber.
Steve's entire body was trembling with the effort of containing the serum's effects. Every cell seemed to be vibrating at a frequency just beyond pain. He forced himself to respond, attempting humor despite his situation.
"It's probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?"
Erskine's smile was tight but genuine. He turned to Stark. "We will proceed."
Inside the chamber, Steve heard the rising hum of machinery as the Vita-Ray reactors came online. A soft blue glow began to build around him, gradually intensifying.
"That's ten percent," Stark's voice announced through the speaker.
The blue light grew brighter, and Steve felt a strange tingling throughout his body, as though every cell were waking up simultaneously.
"Twenty percent."
The tingling intensified into pins and needles, uncomfortable but manageable.
"Thirty percent."
Heat began to build within his muscles, a deep, penetrating warmth unlike anything he'd experienced before.
"That's forty percent."
Someone outside—a doctor, perhaps—called out, "Vital signs are normal."
"That's fifty percent," Stark continued.
The heat was becoming intense now, moving beyond warmth into pain. Steve clenched his jaw, determined not to cry out.
"Sixty percent."
His bones began to ache, a deep, grinding sensation as though they were shifting beneath his skin. Which, he realized with sudden clarity, they probably were.
"Seventy percent."
The pain crossed a threshold, becoming overwhelming. Steve couldn't contain the scream that tore from his throat, echoing within the confined space of the chamber. Outside, he could hear Erskine's panicked voice.
"Steven! Steven!"
Then Peggy, her voice tight with concern: "Shut it down!"
"Steven!" Erskine called again.
"Shut it down!" Peggy insisted.
The blue light had become blinding, consuming his vision entirely. Through the haze of agony, Steve heard Erskine ordering, "Kill the reactor, Mr. Stark! Turn it off! Kill it! Kill the reactor!"
Despite the excruciating pain—or perhaps because of it—Steve found a sudden clarity. This was his moment, his contribution to the war effort, his chance to become something more than a skinny kid from Brooklyn. If he failed now, there might not be another chance.
"No!" he shouted, his voice strained but determined. "Don't! I can do this!"
There was a moment of hesitation, then Stark's voice resumed the count.
"Eighty percent."
Steve's muscles were expanding, stretching his skin tight. His bones elongated with audible creaks. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest, but beneath the pain was something else—a sense of power building, of potential being realized.
"Ninety percent."
The world beyond pain seemed distant now, a place he wasn't sure he would return to. But he had made his choice, and he would see it through.
"That's one hundred percent."
The blue light flared to blinding white, consuming everything. Steve felt a final surge of energy course through him, his consciousness expanding and then contracting in a single, perfect moment of transformation.
Then, abruptly, darkness. The humming stopped. The light vanished. For a terrifying moment, there was nothing—no sensation, no sound, not even pain.
Gradually, Steve became aware of his own heartbeat, strong and steady. The soft beep of monitoring equipment confirmed he was still alive. Light began to filter through his closed eyelids as power returned to the laboratory.
"Mr. Stark?" Erskine's voice came, tentative and hopeful.
The chamber opened with a hiss of releasing pressure and a cloud of steam. Fresh air rushed in, cool against Steve's skin—skin that somehow felt different, more sensitive, more alive.
As the steam cleared, Steve heard gasps from the assembled scientists and military personnel. He felt different—taller, stronger, as though his body finally matched the person he'd always been inside.
"Steven," Erskine said softly. "Steven."
With effort, Steve lifted his head and opened his eyes. The world seemed sharper somehow, colors more vivid, details more defined. He looked down at himself and barely recognized what he saw—broad shoulders, muscular chest, powerful arms straining against the restraints that had been calibrated for his former smaller frame.
Colonel Phillips stepped forward, his perpetual scowl momentarily replaced by genuine amazement. "The son of a bitch did it," he muttered, shaking his head in disbelief.
Technicians hurried to release the restraints. Steve stood shakily, adjusting to his new height and center of gravity. His body felt simultaneously foreign and more natural than his previous form ever had—as though he'd spent his entire life in a too-small suit and was finally wearing one that fit.
"I did it," Steve breathed, looking at his hands in wonder. They were the same hands he'd always known, but larger, stronger, capable of so much more.
Dr. Erskine approached, his face alight with professional satisfaction and personal joy. "Yeah, yeah," he said with a modest nod. "I think we did it."