SSR WAREHOUSE - NEW YORK CITY
The makeshift medical facility within the SSR warehouse hummed with quiet urgency. Through a large window overlooking the main floor, Steve could see Howard Stark in coveralls and protective goggles, meticulously disassembling the HYDRA mini-submarine recovered from the harbor. The eccentric inventor worked with focused intensity, his usual showmanship replaced by the methodical precision of a scientist confronting technology beyond his understanding.
Steve sat on an examination table, his new physique making the standard-issue furniture seem almost comically small beneath him. An SSR doctor and nurse moved around him with practiced efficiency, drawing yet another vial of blood from his arm. The tray beside him already held twelve identical vials, each filled with the crimson fluid that now represented the only viable remnant of Dr. Erskine's life's work.
"Think you got enough?" Steve asked, attempting to mask his discomfort with humor. It wasn't the needle that bothered him—his new body barely registered such minor discomforts—but rather the clinical scrutiny that made him feel more like a specimen than a soldier.
Peggy Carter stood nearby, watching the procedure with a mixture of professional interest and personal concern. She had shed her blood-spattered clothes from the chase for a fresh uniform, but exhaustion remained evident in the shadows beneath her eyes.
"Any hope of reproducing the program is locked in your genetic code," she explained, her British accent crisp despite her obvious fatigue. "But without Dr. Erskine, it would take years."
The nurse filled the final vial and placed it carefully alongside the others before applying a cotton ball to Steve's arm. He rolled down his sleeve, his gaze falling on a pair of shattered spectacles resting on the desk—Erskine's glasses, retrieved from the scene of his murder. The sight of them, bent and broken like their owner, sent a pang through Steve's chest that his enhanced physique could do nothing to diminish.
"He deserved more than this," Steve said quietly.
Peggy's expression softened. "If it could work only once, he'd be proud it was you."
The moment hung between them, a quiet acknowledgment of shared loss and uncertain future.
In another section of the warehouse, behind temporary dividers that offered minimal privacy, Lieutenant Alan Scott sat rigidly in a metal chair opposite Colonel Chester Phillips and a stone-faced military intelligence officer. The green ring on Scott's finger had been secured in a small lead box on the table between them, though the officer kept glancing at it as though expecting it to burst through its confinement at any moment.
"Let me make sure I understand correctly, Lieutenant," Phillips said, his tone managing to be both incredulous and threatening simultaneously. "You've been in possession of an object of unknown origin and extraordinary power for over six months, yet at no point did you think it might be relevant to inform your superior officers?"
Scott met the colonel's gaze steadily. "With respect, sir, I wasn't certain what I was dealing with initially. By the time I understood even a fraction of the ring's capabilities, we were at war, and I made the judgment call that it would be more valuable used discreetly in service than confiscated for study."
"That wasn't your decision to make, Lieutenant," the intelligence officer interjected.
"Perhaps not," Scott conceded. "But I stand by it. The ring has already saved lives—including several today."
Phillips leaned forward, his weathered face unreadable. "Then explain it to me again, from the beginning. Where did you find this... artifact?"
Scott took a measured breath, organizing his thoughts. "I didn't find it, sir. It found me. Six months ago, I was investigating a railway accident in the Midwest—standard procedure for structural failures. While examining the wreckage at night, I discovered what appeared to be a meteorite fragment embedded in a support beam."
"A meteorite," Phillips repeated flatly.
"Yes, sir. Green, about the size of a baseball, giving off a faint glow. As I approached it, the object... changed. It melted and reformed into the ring, and then—" Scott paused, aware of how impossible his next words would sound. "It spoke to me."
The intelligence officer scoffed openly, but Phillips silenced him with a glance.
"Spoke," the colonel prompted.
"Not in words, exactly," Scott clarified. "It communicated concepts, images. It showed me that it had been part of something larger—a lantern of some kind—and that it had traveled vast distances to find a worthy bearer." He met Phillips' skeptical gaze directly. "I know how this sounds, sir. I'm an engineer by training. I deal in concrete realities, not mystical artifacts. But I can only report what happened."
"And what happened next?" Phillips pressed.
"The ring showed me how to use it—how to focus my willpower to create constructs of energy. It responds to imagination and determination, allowing me to manifest solid objects made of this green energy." Scott gestured toward the lead box. "It has other capabilities as well—flight, protection from harm, detection of dangers. I've been learning its limits ever since."
"And you didn't think the United States government might have an interest in such technology?"
Scott's expression remained composed, but his eyes hardened slightly. "I considered it, sir. But I also considered that the ring chose me specifically. When I attempted to remove it during my initial experiments, it returned to my finger within moments. It seems to have bonded with me in some way I don't fully understand."
Phillips exchanged glances with the intelligence officer before turning back to Scott. "You realize that the display you put on today changes everything. Dozens of civilians witnessed you creating impossible structures out of thin air. The papers are already running with stories of 'men with extraordinary abilities' fighting on the streets of New York."
"I understand, sir. I made a tactical decision based on the immediate threat. Protecting civilians took priority over maintaining secrecy."
"That's not your call to make, soldier," Phillips growled.
"With respect, sir, it was the right call," Scott countered, his composure never wavering. "And I would make it again under similar circumstances."
Before Phillips could respond, a commotion from the adjacent medical bay interrupted them. A crash followed by shouts drew their attention.
"He's awake! Someone grab him!"
In an adjacent room, Jay Garrick had regained consciousness with explosive results. The young technician, who had been lying motionless on a medical cot since being exposed to the chemical spill and Vita-Ray discharge during Kruger's attack, suddenly sat bolt upright. His eyes snapped open, pupils dilated to pinpoints, and in the next instant—before the attending medical staff could even register his movement—he was across the room.
"What the—?" Jay gasped, his voice vibrating with an unusual harmonic quality. The world around him seemed to be moving in slow motion, medical personnel frozen mid-gesture as they reached toward his now-empty bed.
Disoriented and panicking, Jay took a step forward and immediately collided with the far wall at impossible speed, leaving a Jay-shaped dent in the plaster before rebounding onto the floor in a heap of tangled limbs.
Medical personnel converged on him as Phillips, Scott, and the intelligence officer burst into the room, drawn by the commotion.
"What happened?" Phillips demanded.
The chief medical officer looked up from where he was examining the dazed Garrick. "He was unconscious one moment, then—I've never seen anything like it. He moved faster than the eye could track."
Jay groaned, sitting up with assistance. "Everything's... wrong," he mumbled. "Too slow. Then too fast." He looked up at Phillips with confused recognition. "Colonel?"
"Take it easy, son," Phillips instructed, his tone softening slightly. "You've been unconscious since the incident. Those chemicals you were exposed to, combined with the Vita-Ray discharge—the doctors aren't sure what effect they might have had on your system."
"Effect?" Jay laughed, a note of hysteria edging his voice. "I just ran into a wall at what felt like a hundred miles an hour, but somehow I'm not dead or even seriously injured. I'd say that's quite an effect." He attempted to stand, but as soon as his feet touched the floor, they began vibrating at super-speed, causing him to stumble forward again before a nurse caught him.
"Fascinating," Howard Stark commented from the doorway, where he had appeared with characteristic timing. "The chemical bath must have altered his cellular structure, and the Vita-Rays activated the changes, similar to how they catalyzed Erskine's serum in Rogers."
"You think this is the same as what happened to me?" Steve asked, joining the growing crowd in the medical bay.
"Not the same, but perhaps related in principle," Stark theorized, already circling Jay with scientific curiosity. "Different process, different results, but both involve enhanced human capabilities triggered by external catalysts." He picked up Jay's chart, scanning it with practiced efficiency. "His metabolic readings are off the charts—heart rate, cellular regeneration, neural activity. Everything's accelerated."
"I asked for one super-soldier," Phillips muttered. "Now I've got four of them, each with different abilities, and no idea what to do with any of them." He ran a hand over his face in exasperation. "The President is going to have my stars for this."
On the opposite side of the warehouse floor, Jim Hammond stood apart from the others, his synthetic form drawing wary glances from SSR personnel. Since the chase, he had maintained a respectful distance, processing the loss of Dr. Horton in his own way. Unlike the others, whose transformations had been recent and unexpected, Hammond had always known he was different. But today had marked the first time he had fully embraced his capabilities in public.
"Mr. Hammond," Peggy approached him cautiously. "I wanted to express my condolences regarding Dr. Horton. His contributions were invaluable."
Hammond nodded, his synthetic features composing themselves into an expression of dignity despite his grief. "He was more than my creator," he said softly. "He was the closest thing I had to a father. His last words to me were to 'continue' and 'show them what I could become.'" He looked up at Peggy, his artificial eyes containing an emotion that defied his manufactured nature. "I intend to honor that request."
"I believe the SSR could help with that," Peggy offered. "Your abilities could be of tremendous value in the fight against HYDRA."
"The military didn't want me before," Hammond pointed out. "They considered me too unpredictable, too dangerous."
"Things have changed," Peggy replied, gesturing toward where Steve, Scott, and now Garrick stood in various states of 'enhanced' humanity. "We're in uncharted territory now."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Senator Brandt and his aides, who strode into the warehouse with the unmistakable authority of a politician seeking answers. Colonel Phillips broke away from the examination of Jay to intercept him.
"Colonel Phillips, my committee is demanding answers," Brandt announced without preamble.
Phillips's expression suggested he was fantasizing about strangling the senator with his bare hands. "Great," he replied sarcastically. "Why don't we start with how a German spy got a ride to my secret installation in your car?"
Brandt's mouth tightened, but he wisely chose not to pursue that line of questioning. Phillips turned his attention back to Stark, who had abandoned his examination of Jay to return to the recovered HYDRA submarine.
"What have we got here?" Phillips asked, gesturing toward the partially disassembled craft.
Howard wiped his hands on a rag, managing to look both frustrated and exhilarated by the challenge before him. "Speaking modestly, I'm the best mechanical engineer in this country," he began, a statement that from anyone else would sound like boasting but from Stark was simple acknowledgment of fact. "But I don't know what's inside this thing or how it works. We're not even close to this technology."
"Then who is?" Brandt asked, voicing the question on everyone's mind.
"HYDRA," Phillips stated flatly. "I'm sure you've been reading our briefings."
The senator had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I'm on a number of committees, Colonel."
Peggy stepped forward, her professional demeanor firmly in place. "HYDRA is the Nazi deep-science division," she explained for Brandt's benefit. "It's led by Johann Schmidt. But he has much bigger ambitions."
"HYDRA is practically a cult," Phillips added grimly. "They worship Schmidt. They think he's invincible."
"So, what are you going to do about it?" Brandt pressed, his political instincts clearly calculating how this situation might affect his standing in Washington.
Phillips's expression hardened with determination. "I spoke to the President this morning. As of today, the SSR is being retasked."
"Colonel?" Peggy questioned, momentarily caught off guard by this sudden shift in mission.
"We are taking the fight to HYDRA," Phillips confirmed. "Pack your bags, Agent Carter. You, too, Stark. We're flying to London tonight."
Steve, who had been listening intently from nearby, stepped forward. "Sir? If you're going after Schmidt, I want in."
Phillips turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "You're an experiment," he stated bluntly. "You're going to Alamogordo."
"The serum worked," Steve protested, gesturing to his transformed physique. "I can do more now. I can help end this war."
Colonel Phillips surveyed Steve with a calculating gaze that had evaluated thousands of soldiers throughout his military career. His expression remained unimpressed despite the physical marvel standing before him.
"I asked for an army," Phillips replied, his voice carrying decades of battlefield pragmatism, "and all I got was you." The harsh assessment landed like a physical blow. "Four unpredictable men with abilities we barely understand. That's not the strategic advantage I fought for."
In the background, Dr. Richard Tyler studied the vials of blood drawn from Steve's arm with intense concentration. The young scientist's fingers moved with practiced precision as he prepared slides for microscopic examination, his expression shifting between scientific fascination and deep concern.
"Colonel," Tyler interjected, looking up from his work. "With all due respect, you're not seeing the bigger picture. What we've achieved here—"
"What we've achieved, Doctor," Phillips cut him off, "is a single soldier, a man who bursts into flame, another who creates green light shows, and your friend Garrick over there who can't even stand still without vibrating through the floor." He gestured toward Jay, who was indeed struggling to maintain a normal standing position as his molecules occasionally phased partially through the concrete. "That's not an army. That's a circus."
The colonel's words hung in the air, their finality silencing further protest. Steve's shoulders slumped slightly, the weight of Erskine's sacrifice and his own uncertain future pressing down on him more heavily than any physical burden his enhanced body could bear.
Captain Steven Trevor stepped forward from where he'd been observing the proceedings. His Air Corps uniform was immaculate, his bearing that of a man accustomed to speaking truth to authority.
"Sir, if I might offer a perspective from the field," Trevor said, his tone respectful but firm. "I've seen what HYDRA is capable of firsthand. Their weapons are unlike anything we've encountered. Traditional forces are taking heavy casualties with little to show for it." He gestured toward Steve. "Even one man with Rogers' capabilities could turn the tide of critical operations. Four of them working in concert could be devastating to enemy forces."
"Captain Trevor has a point," Sergeant Frank Rock added, his weathered face bearing the scars of numerous combat engagements. "In the trenches, one good man can sometimes accomplish what a platoon can't. I've seen it." The sergeant's eyes moved to Steve, assessing him with the experienced gaze of a combat veteran. "If Rogers here can do half of what that serum supposedly enables, he'd be worth a hundred regular infantrymen in the right situation."
Phillips remained unmoved. "Battlefield fairy tales don't win wars, gentlemen. Numbers, logistics, and consistent, reliable strategy do." He turned to Dr. Tyler. "Which reminds me—what about your version of the formula, Tyler? Erskine mentioned it was effective but temporary."
Tyler set down the blood sample he'd been examining, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "About an hour of enhanced capabilities before reverting to baseline," he confirmed. "But the biochemical stress on the subject is significant. It was never meant to be more than a stopgap—a temporary advantage in emergency situations."
"Could you reproduce Erskine's permanent version from Rogers' blood?" Phillips pressed.
"I don't know," Tyler admitted, his scientific honesty overriding any desire to offer false hope. "Erskine's approach was fundamentally different from mine. He was creating permanent cellular transformation at the genetic level, while my formula creates a temporary energy surge that the body eventually metabolizes." He gestured to the microscope. "I can see the effects in Rogers' blood, but understanding the mechanism well enough to reproduce it? That could take years, even with unlimited resources."
"Which we don't have," Phillips noted dryly.
"Exactly why we should use what we do have," Trevor countered. "Rogers is ready now. So are Hammond, Scott, and Garrick, once they've had proper training."
To everyone's surprise, Senator Brandt cleared his throat and intervened. "With all due respect to the Colonel," he began, his politician's instinct for opportunity clearly triggered, "I think we may be missing the point. I've seen you in action, Steve. More importantly, the country's seen it."
He snapped his fingers at an aide. "Paper."
The aide promptly produced a copy of the New York Examiner, its bold headline declaring "NAZI SABOTEUR FOILED! MYSTERY MEN SAVE CIVILIANS!" Below the headline was a dramatic photograph of Steve using a car door as a makeshift shield against Kruger's gunfire, with Hammond visible in the sky above him, wreathed in flame, and the emerald glow of Scott's ring constructs visible at the edge of the frame.
"The enlistment lines have been around the block since your picture hit the newsstands," Brandt continued, his voice taking on the practiced cadence of a campaign speech. "You don't take a soldier, a symbol like that, and hide him in a lab."
Dr. Tyler leaned forward, studying the newspaper with interest. "The public response is remarkable," he observed. "They're not afraid of these abilities—they're inspired by them."
"Exactly," Brandt nodded enthusiastically. "Morale wins wars too, Colonel. A symbol can be just as powerful as a weapon."
Phillips scoffed. "Pretty pictures don't stop HYDRA's advanced weaponry."
"No," Steve Trevor agreed, "but they make people believe victory is possible. That's worth something, especially now."
As the debate continued, Tyler returned to his examination of Steve's blood samples. "The cellular cohesion is extraordinary," he murmured, almost to himself. "Perfect integration at every level. My formula could never achieve this kind of stability." He looked up at Steve with newfound respect. "Whatever Erskine did, it wasn't just about physical enhancement. He somehow created perfect homeostasis while dramatically increasing cellular energy output."
"Can you at least maintain your temporary formula production?" Phillips asked Tyler, bringing the conversation back to practical matters. "Having it as a tactical option could be valuable."
Tyler hesitated. "With Erskine's notes and what I can learn from Rogers' blood, I might be able to refine it—perhaps extend the duration to ninety minutes, possibly reduce the recovery period." He shook his head. "But it will never match what Erskine accomplished. My formula is a torch that burns brightly but quickly. His is a steady flame that never diminishes."
Steve stared at the newspaper Brandt had produced, a mixture of surprise and unease crossing his features. The photograph made him look heroic, confident, in control—when in reality, he had been operating purely on instinct and determination.
"Son," Brandt addressed him directly, laying a fatherly hand on his shoulder, "do you want to serve your country on the most important battlefield of the war?"
Steve straightened, conviction returning to his posture. "Sir, that's all I want."
Brandt's smile was triumphant. "Then, congratulations. You just got promoted."
Sergeant Rock watched the exchange with a cynical eye. "The 'most important battlefield,' huh? Something tells me he's not talking about the front lines."
"Politics is its own kind of warfare," Trevor replied quietly. "Not the kind I'd choose, but perhaps Rogers can make a difference there too."
While this exchange took place, Patrick Wayne had arrived quietly at the warehouse, making his way directly to where Howard was examining the HYDRA technology. Unlike Stark's hands-on approach, Wayne observed from a slight distance, his analytical mind processing what he saw without needing to touch the components.
"Remarkable," Wayne commented softly. "The energy conversion principles are unlike anything in conventional physics."
"Glad I'm not the only one baffled," Stark replied without looking up from his work. "Wayne Industries' power systems are the most advanced in the private sector. Any insights would be welcome."
"I have some theories," Wayne acknowledged. "But we'd need specialized equipment to test them properly."
Dr. Tyler joined them, carefully placing a sealed vial of Steve's blood in a specialized container. "The fundamental problem isn't just understanding HYDRA's technology," he added. "It's how quickly they've managed to weaponize principles that should still be theoretical. We're years behind, even with Erskine's breakthrough and these... unexpected developments." He gestured toward Jay Garrick, who was finally managing to control his vibrations enough to remain fully solid.
Their conversation was interrupted as Phillips approached, having extracted himself from the situation with Steve and Senator Brandt.
"Mr. Wayne," Phillips greeted him with a nod. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow's briefing."
"I believe in being thorough, Colonel," Wayne replied simply. "Especially when confronted with technology that could alter the course of the war."
Phillips grunted in acknowledgment before cutting to the chase. "You've seen our newest... assets."
All three men glanced toward where Steve stood with Brandt, then to Hammond in his solitary position, Scott conferring with the intelligence officer, and finally to Garrick, who was attempting to stand without vibrating through the floor.
"Four individuals with extraordinary abilities," Wayne observed, his tone carefully neutral. "Each representing a different approach to human enhancement or, in Hammond's case, synthetic life."
"Four potential weapons we don't understand and can't control," Phillips corrected grimly. "Brandt's already claimed Rogers for his propaganda campaign. But the others..." He let the sentence hang, the implication clear.
"They need training," Wayne suggested. "A controlled environment where they can develop their abilities without endangering themselves or others."
"Are you offering?" Phillips asked bluntly.
Wayne and Stark exchanged glances.
"Wayne Manor has extensive grounds, well away from prying eyes," Wayne said after a moment's consideration. "And I have resources that could be useful in understanding their capabilities."
"I can provide the scientific expertise," Stark added, warming to the idea. "Between Wayne's facilities and my technical knowledge, we could establish a proper training program."
"And I'd be happy to continue my research there," Tyler offered. "My temporary formula might be useful in their training, and studying their abilities could help refine it further."
"And keep them out of military custody," Phillips noted shrewdly. "Which I suspect is part of your motivation, gentlemen."
Neither industrialist denied it.
"The government would still have oversight," Wayne assured him. "But these men deserve a chance to understand their own capabilities before being thrust into combat or confined to a laboratory."
Phillips considered the proposal, his pragmatic military mind weighing the options. "I'll take it to the President," he finally said. "But no guarantees. And they'll need to be available when the time comes."
"Of course," Wayne agreed.
With the immediate decision regarding Steve made and the other enhanced individuals temporarily accounted for, preparations began for various departures. Phillips, Peggy, and Stark would head to London to coordinate the SSR's new offensive against HYDRA. Wayne would make arrangements for the potential training facility at his estate. Brandt and his staff had plans for Steve that, while still unclear, clearly involved the "most important battlefield" the senator had mentioned.
Amid the activity, Steve requested permission to return briefly to Camp Lehigh to collect his few personal belongings and say goodbye to his fellow recruits. Given his new status as Brandt's "promoted" soldier, the request was granted, with transportation arranged for the following morning.
CAMP LEHIGH - THE NEXT DAY
The barracks seemed smaller somehow, the bunks more cramped, the ceiling lower than Steve remembered, though only days had passed since he had left for the procedure. He stood awkwardly in the doorway, his new physique drawing shocked stares from the recruits who had once mocked his slight frame.
Peter Parker was the first to recognize him, despite the dramatic transformation. "Steve?" he asked, rising from his bunk with disbelief written across his features. "Is that really you?"
"It's me," Steve confirmed, a self-conscious smile tugging at his lips.
For a moment, the barracks remained frozen in stunned silence. Then Peter let out a whoop of astonishment and rushed forward, grabbing Steve's hand in an enthusiastic shake.
"My God! It worked! The procedure actually worked!" He circled Steve, taking in the transformation from every angle. "This is incredible! You're at least a foot taller, and the muscle mass—Dr. Erskine was a genius!"
The commotion drew others from across the barracks. Recruits who had previously ignored Steve or joined in Hodge's mockery now approached with cautious awe.
"Rogers?" Williams asked, clearly struggling to reconcile this specimen of physical perfection with the scrawny recruit he remembered. "What in the name of—"
"It's classified," Steve replied, the phrase already becoming familiar on his tongue.
Hodge emerged from the back of the crowd, his habitual sneer momentarily replaced by genuine shock. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, apparently unable to formulate an adequate response to the transformation before him.
"I heard about Dr. Erskine," Peter said more quietly, his expression sobering. "And the attack. The papers said you chased down the assassin."
"I did what anyone would have done," Steve demurred, uncomfortable with the attention.
"Not anyone," Peter corrected, glancing meaningfully at Steve's enhanced physique. "Not like that, anyway."
As the initial shock wore off, the barracks filled with questions that Steve could only partially answer due to security restrictions. The other recruits wanted to know everything—how the procedure felt, what his new capabilities were, whether they would be chosen next. Steve navigated the inquiries as best he could, aware that much of what had happened was not his to share.
Eventually, the crowd dispersed at the barking command of a drill sergeant, leaving Steve alone with Peter.
"They're sending me on tour," Steve explained quietly, gathering his few belongings from beneath the bunk that now seemed comically small for his transformed frame. "Senator Brandt has ideas about how I can best serve."
"Not combat?" Peter asked, surprised.
Steve shook his head. "Not yet. But it's a start."
Peter nodded, understanding the frustration beneath Steve's resigned acceptance. "You'll get there," he assured his friend. "After what you did in New York, they can't keep you sidelined forever."
"What about you?" Steve asked. "Any word on your assignment?"
"Still waiting," Peter admitted. "The SSR seems to be reassessing everything after what happened." He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and withdrew a small object—a battered silver compass. "I want you to have this. It was my father's, from the 107th."
"Peter, I can't—" Steve began, recognizing the significance of such a family heirloom.
"Take it," Peter insisted, pressing it into Steve's hand. "For luck. And as a reminder that somewhere out there, someone from the old neighborhood is rooting for you."
Steve accepted the compass with genuine emotion, tucking it carefully into his breast pocket. "I'll keep it safe," he promised. "And when I get my own unit, I'll find you. We'll serve together, just like our fathers did."
"The next generation of the 107th," Peter agreed with a smile. "So stay alive out there, wherever they send you."
"You too," Steve replied, clasping his friend's shoulder with newfound strength carefully controlled. "This war isn't over yet. Not by a long shot."
As Steve prepared to depart Camp Lehigh for the last time, he couldn't help but reflect on how drastically his path had diverged from what he had imagined when he first arrived. He had come seeking combat, a chance to fight alongside men like his father. Instead, he was leaving with a transformed body, an uncertain future, and the weight of Erskine's legacy on his shoulders.
Whatever battlefield Senator Brandt had in mind, Steve was determined to make it count.