BUFFALO THEATER - BACKSTAGE - JUNE 23, 1943
Steve Rogers stood backstage of the modest Buffalo theater, perspiration beading on his forehead as he stared at the star-spangled costume laid out before him. The blue fabric with its white star centerpiece, the red and white striped lower half, and most ridiculous of all, the cowl with tiny wings at the temples—it looked like something from a children's adventure serial, not the uniform of a soldier ready for combat.
His stomach churned with a mix of stage fright and mounting dismay. This wasn't what he had signed up for. This wasn't how he had envisioned honoring Dr. Erskine's sacrifice.
"I don't know if I can do this," he confessed to Brandt's aide, a thin, practical man named Thomas Reynolds who had been assigned as Steve's handler for the tour.
Reynolds adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses and gave Steve a practiced smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Nothing to it," he assured with the casual confidence of someone who would never have to step onto that stage himself. "You sell a few bonds. Bonds buy bullets. Bullets kill Nazis." He mimicked a gun with his fingers. "Bing bang boom. You're an American hero."
Steve swallowed hard, unconvinced. "It's just not how I pictured getting there."
Reynolds stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "The Senator has got a lot of pull up on the Hill. You play ball with us, you'll be leading your own platoon in no time." He picked up the triangular shield adorned with stars and stripes and thrust it toward Steve. "Take the shield. Go."
Before Steve could protest further, stagehands were ushering him toward the curtain. The sound of a bugle fanfare filled the theater as the dancing girls took their positions.
"Thirty seconds, Captain!" the stage manager whispered urgently.
Steve hastily pulled on the cowl, feeling utterly ridiculous as the tight fabric gripped his face. He had faced Nazi assassins just days before, yet somehow this moment required more courage.
The curtains parted. After a long, awkward moment of hesitation, Steve felt a firm push between his shoulder blades propelling him forward. He stumbled onto the stage, momentarily blinded by the spotlights and greeted by the expectant faces of a dozen chorus girls in star-spangled costumes with skirts that would never pass military regulation.
The audience—mostly families with small children and elderly couples—regarded him with polite curiosity. In the front row, Senator Brandt beamed with self-satisfaction, as though his personal ingenuity had created Captain America from scratch.
The orchestra struck up a lively tune, and the chorus girls began to sing.
"Who's strong and brave, here to save the American way?" they harmonized, dancing in perfect synchronization around Steve, who stood frozen like a deer in headlights.
Panic gripped him as he realized he was meant to respond. His eyes dropped to the cue card taped inside his shield, and he read the words with wooden delivery.
"Not all of us can storm a beach or drive a tank," he recited, his voice faltering. "But there's still a way all of us can fight."
The girls continued their routine, forming a patriotic tableau around him. "Who vows to fight like a man for what's right, night and day?"
Steve found his next line on the card. "Series E Defense Bonds," he announced with the enthusiasm of someone reading a grocery list. "Each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy's gun."
As the chorus girls launched into the main refrain about a "star-spangled man with a plan," Steve caught sight of Reynolds in the wings, miming an exaggerated smile and gesturing for Steve to look more enthusiastic.
Steve attempted to comply, forcing his features into what he hoped was an inspiring expression rather than a grimace of discomfort.
MILWAUKEE THEATER - ONE WEEK LATER
"Cut! Guys, don't look at the camera," the film director called, frustration evident in his voice.
Steve stood on the set, surrounded by backdrop paintings of a European battlefield that looked nothing like the real thing. This was his third take, and the novelty of being in a motion picture had worn off after the first hour under the hot studio lights.
The costume had been modified slightly since Buffalo—more padding in the shoulders, a reinforced cowl, boots that didn't pinch quite so much—but it still felt like a costume, not a uniform. The shield, at least, had been upgraded from pressed cardboard to a lightweight aluminum that could withstand the choreographed fight sequences without buckling.
"Places everyone!" the assistant director called. "Let's take it from 'Each one you buy.'"
The chorus girls reassembled around Steve, their professional smiles never wavering despite the repetition. The director signaled, and the playback music began once more.
"Each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy's gun," Steve recited, now with practiced delivery that sounded almost natural. Two weeks of performances had taught him the rhythms of showmanship, even if he still felt like an impostor.
The singers launched into their patriotic chorus again, and Steve went through the motions of his choreographed fight with the actor playing Hitler—a sequence that had become so routine he could perform it in his sleep.
Later, in his dressing room, Steve stared at his reflection in the mirror. The face of Captain America stared back, but behind the mask, Steve Rogers wondered if he was making any difference at all. People were dying overseas—real soldiers fighting real battles—while he pranced around on stage in costume.
A gentle knock at the door interrupted his brooding. "Five minutes, Captain," called a female voice.
"Thank you, Gloria," he replied, recognizing the voice of one of the chorus girls—a blonde from Minnesota with a kind smile and a brother in the Pacific.
He sighed and adjusted his cowl. The show must go on.
—
PHILADELPHIA - JULY 1943
The lobby of the Philadelphia Grand Theater buzzed with excitement as families crowded around the man in the star-spangled costume. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the ornate windows, casting dramatic shadows across the art deco floor tiles and illuminating the sea of expectant faces that surrounded Steve. Children pushed forward with comic books and homemade shields, their eyes shining with the uncomplicated hero worship that still made Steve uncomfortable after weeks on the road.
He had removed his cowl, finding that children responded better when they could see his face, but the rest of the outfit had become like a second skin after three weeks on tour. The costume no longer felt foreign against his enhanced physique—just another role to play, another mask to wear. Sometimes he caught himself forgetting where Captain America ended and Steve Rogers began.
"Hey, Cap, my brother says you took out four German tanks all by yourself," a young boy called out, his eyes wide with admiration. The child couldn't have been more than seven, his hair carefully combed, wearing his Sunday best for this special occasion. He clutched a Captain America comic book so tightly that the pages were crumpling.
Steve exchanged a quick glance with Reynolds, who stood nearby monitoring the interaction. The Senator's aide gave an encouraging nod, his expression making it clear this was exactly the sort of moment the publicity machine thrived on. For weeks, the marketing team had been working overtime, creating increasingly elaborate fictional exploits for Captain America through comics, radio shows, and newsreels. The stories grew more outlandish with each city they visited—Captain America parachuting behind enemy lines, sabotaging Nazi facilities, rescuing entire villages single-handedly.
"Sorry, kid," Steve replied with a gentle smile, crouching down to the boy's level. "Tell your brother he's wrong..."
The boy's face fell in disappointment, his small shoulders sagging visibly. A muscle tightened in Steve's jaw as he saw the light dim in the child's eyes.
"It was eight German tanks," Steve finished with a conspiratorial wink. "And a couple of armored cars too."
The children erupted in cheers, and several nearby parents smiled appreciatively. Steve straightened, a complicated mixture of emotions churning beneath his composed exterior. These fabrications didn't sit right with him—he'd always valued honesty, had always tried to live by his father's code of straight dealing. Yet he couldn't bring himself to shatter these children's illusions, not when they mailed letters to fathers and brothers overseas, not when gold stars appeared with increasing frequency in neighborhood windows.
They needed heroes now, perhaps more than ever. If a fictional Captain America battling fictional Nazis gave them hope while the real war raged overseas, who was he to deny them that comfort?
A movie magazine was thrust into his face, interrupting his thoughts. Steve blinked in surprise at the cover, taking a moment to process what he was seeing. The glossy page featured him in full Captain America regalia, his expression serious beneath the mask. The headline splashed across the image in bold yellow type: "WHO'S CAP KISSING NOW?" A smaller photo in the corner showed Howard Stark looking uncharacteristically glum with the caption "HAS HOWARD LOST HIS PLAYBOY CROWN?"
Steve looked up to find a beautiful blonde holding a pen expectantly. Her carefully styled hair framed a face that wouldn't have looked out of place in the movies, with high cheekbones and bright eyes that crinkled slightly at the corners when she smiled. Unlike the starstruck children or the mothers seeking autographs for their sons, there was something different in her gaze—an open appraisal that Steve, even with his limited experience with women, recognized as interest.
"Would you mind?" she asked, her voice carrying a slight Southern lilt that stood out among the Philadelphia accents.
Steve fumbled for words momentarily, still thrown by the magazine cover and its implications. "I, uh... sure. Who should I make it out to?"
"Jessica," she replied, her smile widening. "Jessica Wells."
As he signed, she leaned slightly closer. "For the record, I don't believe half of what they print in these things. I work at the Navy Yard—communications division. I see the real reports coming in." She lowered her voice. "But I think what you're doing is important too. My three brothers are all overseas, and my youngest brother's unit writes about how they gather around whenever there's a Captain America newsreel."
Her candor caught Steve off guard. Most people he met on tour either bought completely into the myth or seemed cynically aware of the propaganda but played along anyway. Jessica's perspective—recognizing the fiction but valuing its purpose—resonated with his own conflicted feelings.
"Thank you," he said, meaning it. "That... actually means a lot."
"I get off at six," she said, taking back the signed magazine. "There's a decent coffee shop around the corner from here. Davis & Sons. I'll be there at seven, if you're interested in a conversation that doesn't involve tanks or Hitler's jaw." With a smile that carried just the right mixture of confidence and invitation, she turned and walked away.
Steve watched her go, surprised by the interaction and his own reaction to it. Since the serum, women had shown interest in him constantly—chorus girls, fans, even society women attending the high-dollar fundraising events. He'd maintained a polite distance, uncomfortable with attention based on his new appearance rather than who he actually was. Something about Jessica felt different—more genuine, less enamored with the uniform and more curious about the man wearing it.
Reynolds appeared at his elbow, having witnessed the exchange. "The evening show's at eight," he said with a knowing smirk. "Just make sure you're not late."
"It's just coffee," Steve replied, though he could feel a flush creeping up his neck.
"Sure it is, Cap," Reynolds chuckled. "Just like it was 'just coffee' with that redhead in Baltimore."
Steve winced internally. There hadn't been anything with any redhead in Baltimore, but the publicity team seemed determined to craft a wholesome yet slightly rakish public image for Captain America—America's golden boy who could charm the ladies but still remained the kind of hero mothers would want their sons to emulate. The movie magazine was likely part of that campaign.
The afternoon crawled by with preparations for the evening show, costume adjustments, and a brief rehearsal with the chorus girls for a new number they'd be debuting. All the while, Steve found himself thinking about Jessica—not just her physical beauty, which was considerable, but the straightforward way she'd spoken to him. Few people did that anymore; most either treated him as the character he portrayed or as a scientific achievement rather than a person.
Coffee at Davis & Sons turned out to be a revelation. Jessica arrived precisely at seven, having changed from her Navy Yard uniform into a simple blue dress that complemented her eyes. She spoke about her work—as much as security allowed—and her family's long military tradition. She asked questions about his tour without fawning, laughed genuinely at his self-deprecating humor about the costume, and seemed to see past "Captain America" to the sometimes uncertain man beneath.
"You don't like it much, do you?" she asked over their second cup.
"The coffee? It's not bad," Steve deflected.
Jessica gave him a knowing look. "The show. The whole..." she waved a hand vaguely, "...Captain America thing."
Steve considered denying it, giving the standard line about being proud to serve in any capacity. Instead, something about her directness invited honesty.
"I enlisted to fight," he admitted quietly, staring into his cup. "Not to... perform. I respect what the shows accomplish—the bonds we sell fund real equipment for real soldiers. But sometimes it feels..." He struggled to find the right words.
"Hollow?" she suggested.
Steve nodded. "Like I haven't earned it. Any of it. The applause, the pay, the..." He gestured to his transformed body. "This was supposed to be for the front lines. Instead, I'm choreographing fake punches to an actor in a Hitler costume."
"My brother Michael wrote that he hears real soldiers singing your theme song in the trenches," Jessica said after a thoughtful pause. "Said it keeps their spirits up when things get rough. That's something real, isn't it?"
Their conversation continued through dinner at a small Italian restaurant where the owner refused to let "Captain America" pay, and then into a walk beneath the Philadelphia stars. The evening was warm, the city vibrant despite wartime restrictions. They strolled past Independence Hall, its silhouette majestic against the night sky, and Steve found himself opening up about growing up in Brooklyn, about losing his parents, about Bucky shipping out while he remained behind.
Jessica listened with genuine interest, occasionally sharing her own stories—growing up with three rowdy brothers, learning Morse code from her father at age nine, her dreams of seeing Paris once the war ended. Her hand found his as they walked, a simple connection that felt both natural and exhilarating.
"Would you like to see my apartment?" she asked as they completed a circuit of the historic district. "It's not much, but I make a decent nightcap."
Something in her tone made it clear this was more than an offer of a drink. Steve felt a moment of panic—before the serum, women had barely glanced his way, and after, his interactions had been either professional or performative. This was uncharted territory.
"I... yes," he managed, surprising himself with both the decision and the confidence in his voice.
Her apartment was indeed modest—a one-bedroom walk-up with simple furniture and personal touches that spoke of a life lived with purpose. Photographs of her brothers in uniform adorned the walls, alongside watercolor paintings that she shyly admitted were her own work. The promised nightcap was served in mismatched glasses, the brandy warming Steve's chest even though alcohol no longer affected him the way it once had.
When Jessica kissed him, it wasn't with the theatrical flourish of the chorus girls who sometimes planted stage kisses on his cheek during the finale. It was tentative at first, then increasingly confident as Steve responded, his enhanced body somehow knowing what to do even as his mind raced to catch up.
In her arms that night, Steve discovered aspects of his new body that no laboratory test had measured. The connection was brief but genuine—two souls finding comfort amid global chaos. Jessica's touch was both gentle and bold, guiding him through moments of uncertainty with a warmth that made him forget, for a few precious hours, the weight of the shield he carried both literally and figuratively.
Afterward, as she slept beside him, Steve stared at the ceiling, processing what had happened. It wasn't love—they both understood that. It was human connection in a time when the world seemed determined to sever all such bonds. It was real in a way that his stage performances never could be, yet still somehow temporary, a moment out of time.
When he left the next morning for the train to Chicago, they parted with no promises beyond the memory of a sweet interlude that belonged to them alone. She pressed a small envelope into his hand—inside was a simple sketch she'd made of him, not as Captain America but as Steve Rogers, smiling and relaxed in a way that surprised him when he saw it later.
"You're more than the uniform," she'd said as they said goodbye. "Don't forget that, Steve."
On the train, watching the Pennsylvania countryside give way to Ohio, Steve found himself thinking unexpectedly of Peggy Carter—her strength, her determination, her rare smile that transformed her entire face when it appeared. The thought surprised him, emerging unbidden as he tried to read a tactical manual to pass the time.
Peggy was in Europe now, he knew, on the front lines of the real war while he performed his stage routine for adoring crowds. Their brief time together at Camp Lehigh and during the procedure seemed distant now, like something from another life. Yet thoughts of her persisted.
He wondered what she would think of "Captain America" and his bond-selling tour. The imagined disapproval in her eyes made him wince. Peggy Carter was not a woman who suffered artifice gladly. Her world was one of hard truths and direct action—the very things Steve had enlisted to be part of.
As the train rolled westward, Steve tucked Jessica's sketch carefully into his journal. The encounter had been a gift—a moment of genuine human connection in the increasingly artificial world he now inhabited. But it also left him lonelier than before, more aware of the disconnect between the life he was living and the one he had hoped for when he volunteered for Erskine's procedure.
Eight shows a week. ten cities in a month. Thousands of bonds sold. Millions raised for the war effort. By any objective measure, the tour was a tremendous success.
—
CHICAGO - AUGUST 1943
The summer heat clung to Chicago like a wool blanket, the humid air hanging heavy even as evening approached. Despite the oppressive weather, the Civic Opera House was packed to capacity, the magnificent art deco theater filled with excited chatter and the rustle of paper fans attempting to stir the stagnant air. Eight shows a week had become the standard schedule, with matinees drawing families eager to introduce their children to America's new hero, and evening performances catering to adults contributing to the war effort through bond purchases.
Backstage, the atmosphere was a controlled chaos of costume adjustments, last-minute rehearsals, and crew members darting about with clipboards and headsets. In his dressing room—a modest space adorned with hastily mounted star-spangled bunting—Steve sat with a moment of rare solitude before the evening performance. His costume hung on a rack nearby, freshly pressed and repaired after a slight tear during the afternoon show when an overenthusiastic leap had tested the fabric's limits.
On the makeup table before him, alongside jars of stage greasepaint and various pomades, lay a stack of comic books. Steve picked up the topmost one—the latest issue of "Captain America Comics"—and paged through it with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. The colorful panels depicted an impossibly heroic version of himself parachuting behind enemy lines, punching Hitler squarely in the jaw, and leading a daring rescue of American POWs. Throughout the adventure, this paper version of Steve spouted patriotic one-liners that the real Steve couldn't imagine ever actually saying.
"Take that, you Nazi scum!" declared Comic Book Cap while single-handedly destroying a German tank battalion. "Nothing stands against the shield of freedom!"
Steve chuckled, shaking his head at the bombastic dialogue. The real war, he knew from Bucky's carefully censored letters, was far grimier and more complex than these four-color adventures suggested. Yet he couldn't deny the appeal of the simplified narrative—good versus evil, with good triumphant and evil vanquished through courage and determination.
More surprising than his own comic adventures were the companion titles that had sprung up in recent months. Steve gathered several from the stack, examining their vibrant covers with genuine curiosity. They featured the other "mystery men" from the HYDRA chase, now transformed into full-fledged fictional heroes with their own supporting casts and rogues galleries.
"The Green Lantern" showed Alan Scott wielding his power ring against Nazi forces, a glowing green aura surrounding him as he created fantastic constructs to battle enemy soldiers. The comic took liberal interpretations of what Scott's ring could actually do, depicting everything from giant fists to elaborate tanks materialized from green energy.
"The Human Torch" portrayed Jim Hammond soaring through the skies wreathed in flame, rescuing civilians from burning buildings and melting Nazi artillery with concentrated heat beams. The real Hammond, Steve knew, had struggled with the prejudice his synthetic nature evoked; in the comics, he was embraced as a hero without reservation.
There was even a "Flash" comic starring a speedster in a red costume inspired by Jay Garrick, complete with a stylized lightning bolt emblem and the ability to run at impossible speeds. The latest issue showed him racing across the Atlantic Ocean to deliver crucial intelligence, his feet barely touching the water's surface.
But it wasn't just these real-inspired heroes filling the newsstands. The success of the "mystery men" had triggered a boom in original superhero concepts. Steve picked up an issue of "Amazing Adventures" featuring the debut of a character called "Ultraman"—a godlike figure with limitless strength who could fly without wings and shoot beams from his eyes. The colorful strongman was portrayed arriving from "another world" to aid America in its time of need.
Another new title, "The Night Watcher," depicted a wealthy industrialist who fought crime as the mysterious "Nite Owl," using advanced technology and martial arts skills to battle fifth columnists and saboteurs on the home front. The dark, atmospheric art contrasted sharply with the brighter, more straightforward patriotism of the Captain America stories.
The public had embraced these colorful heroes with astonishing enthusiasm. Newsstands could barely keep the comics in stock, and children across America were fashioning homemade costumes and replica shields from garbage can lids. Most readers assumed the characters were purely fictional, invented to boost morale during difficult times. Only a handful of high-ranking officials knew the truth—that somewhere in America, these enhanced individuals were training for potential deployment in the real war.
Steve set aside the comics and picked up the morning's stack of newspapers. His face stared back at him from multiple front pages, photographs from his recent appearances accompanied by glowing headlines:
"CAPTAIN AMERICA: THE SPIRIT OF OUR NATION EMBODIED" declared the Chicago Tribune.
"A NEW UNCLE SAM FOR A NEW AMERICAN CENTURY" proclaimed the New York Times, comparing Steve's symbolic importance to the traditional recruiting figure.
"CAPTAIN AMERICA RAISES MILLIONS AS BOND DRIVE EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS" reported the Washington Post, with an accompanying editorial about how the "living symbol of American values" was transforming the financial landscape of the war effort.
One editorial cartoon particularly caught Steve's attention—a drawing showing Uncle Sam passing a torch to Captain America, with the caption "The Torch of Liberty Finds a New Bearer." The imagery was powerful, suggesting a continuity of American ideals while acknowledging the changing nature of the conflict and the country itself.
Steve occasionally received coded letters from Peter Parker with updates from Camp Lehigh. He slipped the latest from his jacket pocket, re-reading the carefully worded update that contained information between the lines. Sergeant Rock had finally warmed up to some of the recruits, the letter mentioned, though Hodge remained as disagreeable as ever. No word on whether Peter had received his own assignment yet, though he remained hopeful. Between casual references to weather and training exercises were hints that something significant was developing at the camp—new arrivals with specialized skills, unusual equipment being delivered under cover of darkness.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. "Five minutes, Captain," called the stage manager through the door.
"Thank you, five," Steve replied automatically, having quickly learned the theatrical traditions of acknowledging time calls.
He stood and began the familiar ritual of transforming into Captain America for the evening performance. As he pulled on the costume's components, he reflected on how the symbolic weight of the uniform had grown over the past month. No longer just a theatrical costume, it had become something more—a beacon, an ideal, a promise to the American people that their values would prevail in the darkest of times.
Earlier that day, following the matinee performance, he had spent nearly two hours meeting young fans in the theater lobby. Children lined up for blocks, clutching comics, homemade shields, and drawings of their hero for him to sign. One interaction in particular lingered in his memory—a small boy, no more than six, who had approached the table with solemn importance.
"My dad's fighting in the Pacific," the child had said, his voice steady despite the emotion evident in his eyes. "I wrote and told him I met you. He says knowing Captain America is watching over us at home helps him fight harder over there."
The boy had presented a drawing—Captain America standing protectively over a small house with a mother and child inside, while a soldier fought in the distance. The crayon illustration, for all its childish execution, had captured something profound about what Steve had come to represent.
"Could you sign it to Johnny and his dad?" the boy had asked. "His name is Lieutenant Frank Miller."
Steve had not only signed it but had taken extra time to add a personal note to the lieutenant, thanking him for his service and promising to keep watch over the home front until he returned. The boy's face had lit up with such pure joy that Steve found himself blinking back unexpected emotion.
A second knock at the door announced the arrival of Senator Brandt, who entered without waiting for a response. The politician was beaming with the satisfaction of a man whose investment had paid off handsomely, his expensive suit immaculate despite the oppressive heat.
"Banner day, son!" he declared, waving a sheaf of papers triumphantly. "Bond sales have tripled in every city you've visited. The Treasury Department can barely keep up with the processing!" He dropped the reports on the dressing table with a flourish. "The President himself has taken notice."
Steve straightened, his interest genuinely piqued. "The President?"
"Indeed!" Brandt confirmed, his chest puffing slightly with pride at being the bearer of such significant news. "He's requested a special performance at the White House next month. The entire cabinet will be in attendance, along with military brass and foreign dignitaries." He straightened his tie, clearly already imagining the political capital such an event would generate. "It'll be the social event of the season. Roosevelt himself wants to meet the man who's become America's living symbol."
"It would be an honor, sir," Steve replied, meaning it despite his reservations about his role in the war effort. Whatever his personal feelings about the tour, meeting the Commander-in-Chief—the man ultimately responsible for the lives of all American soldiers fighting overseas—represented a genuine opportunity to connect with the real war effort, if only briefly.
Brandt stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Between us, there's talk of a Congressional Medal of Honor. Nothing certain yet, of course, but influential people are impressed with what you represent." He waved a hand toward the stack of newspapers. "You've become more than just a man in a costume, Rogers. You've become the embodiment of what we're fighting for."
The senator clapped him on the shoulder, his expression momentarily softening to something approaching genuine emotion. "You've done your country proud, Captain. Who would have thought that skinny kid from Brooklyn would become America's greatest symbol?"
As Brandt departed, leaving behind the lingering scent of expensive cologne and political ambition, Steve turned to the mirror for one final check before heading to the stage. The reflection that stared back was still somewhat unfamiliar—not just the physical changes the serum had wrought, but the transformation from soldier to performer to symbol. In the glass, he saw not just himself but the amalgamation of everything that had been projected onto him: the hero of comic books, the hope of children, the pride of a nation at war.
He thought of Dr. Erskine's final gesture, tapping his chest over his heart. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man.
Was this what Erskine had envisioned for him? Somehow, Steve doubted it.