WASHINGTON D.C. - SEPTEMBER 1943
The East Room of the White House had been transformed for the evening's performance. Gilded chairs arranged in neat rows faced a temporary stage adorned with American flags and patriotic bunting. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the historic space, their light reflecting off polished hardwood floors and illuminating the elaborate moldings that had witnessed centuries of American history. Outside, a late summer storm threatened, occasional thunder punctuating the murmured conversations of the assembled guests.
Steve waited in an adjacent anteroom, adjusting his costume for what felt like the thousandth time. This performance, however, was unlike any other on the tour. The audience beyond those doors represented the highest echelons of American power—cabinet secretaries, military generals, Supreme Court justices, foreign ambassadors, and at the center, President Franklin Delano Roosevelt himself, better known as FDR to the world at large.
"Nervous, Captain?" Senator Brandt appeared at Steve's side, resplendent in a tailored tuxedo with a small American flag pin on his lapel.
"A little," Steve admitted, tugging at his gloves.
"Don't be," Brandt assured him, though his own eyes betrayed a certain tension. "Just stick to the routine. These people may run the country, but they still enjoy a good show." He lowered his voice. "The President specifically requested you, you know. Mentioned your bond sales by name in the last cabinet meeting."
Steve nodded, trying to focus on the performance ahead rather than the political machinations that had brought him to this moment. Through the doorway, he could see Brandt's aide Reynolds working the room with practiced ease, distributing glossy programs and whispering into the ears of key journalists who had been granted the rare privilege of covering this closed event.
The chorus girls assembled nearby, their usual boisterous chatter subdued by the venue's grandeur. They had been thoroughly briefed on protocol—no improvisation, no flirting with cabinet members, and absolutely no approaching the President without explicit invitation. Their costumes, while still featuring the familiar star-spangled theme, had been subtly modified to be more modest for this particular audience.
"Two minutes, Captain," the White House event coordinator announced, clipboard in hand. "The President has just entered."
A hush fell over the anteroom. Even Brandt, for all his political ambition, seemed momentarily awed by the proximity to such power. Steve took a deep breath, centering himself. This was still just a performance—albeit one with the most important audience of his tour.
The coordinator gave the signal, and the small orchestra began the familiar overture. The chorus girls filed onto the stage with perfect precision, their entrance met with polite applause. Steve waited for his cue, listening to the announcer's introduction.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States and distinguished guests, the Treasury Department and Senator Brandt are proud to present the man who is single-handedly boosting our boys' morale and our nation's war chest—Captain America!"
Steve strode onto the stage with practiced confidence, shield raised high, expression set in the determined look that had become his trademark. The applause was restrained compared to the raucous reception he typically received in theaters across the country, but he could see genuine interest in the faces before him—these were people who understood symbols and their power.
From his position at center stage, Steve had a clear view of President Roosevelt seated in the front row, his powerful presence belying his physical limitations. Beside him sat Eleanor Roosevelt, her keen eyes missing nothing. General Marshall, Admiral King, and other military brass filled the next row, their expressions ranging from skeptical to curious. Steve spotted Secretary of War Stimson leaning over to whisper something to Treasury Secretary Morgenthau, both men studying him with analytical attention.
Steve performed the now-familiar routine with mechanical precision, the chorus girls twirling around him as he recited lines that had lost their meaning through repetition. He punched the actor playing Hitler, hoisted the motorcycle with its three riders above his head, and delivered the climactic speech about buying bonds to "put bullets in your best guy's gun."
Throughout the performance, Steve found his gaze repeatedly drawn to Roosevelt. The President watched with an expression of genuine enjoyment, occasionally leaning toward Mrs. Roosevelt to share an observation. Unlike many in the audience who seemed to be assessing the propaganda value of the show, FDR appeared to be simply appreciating the entertainment for what it was.
When the final notes of "The Star-Spangled Man" faded and Steve struck his concluding pose, the President was the first to applaud, his strong hands coming together with enthusiasm that seemed to give permission for the rest of the audience to express their appreciation more openly. The reserved applause swelled to something more genuine.
Following the performance, the East Room was quickly reconfigured for a reception. Staff moved with well-rehearsed efficiency, removing chairs and setting up small standing tables while white-gloved waiters circulated with champagne and hors d'oeuvres. A reception line formed, with Steve positioned beside the President's wheelchair at Roosevelt's specific request.
"It's an absolute honor to meet you, Mr. President," Steve said as he shook Roosevelt's hand, genuinely awed in the presence of the man leading America through its darkest hour.
Roosevelt's grip was surprisingly firm, his famous charm evident in his easy smile. The lines on his face told the story of twelve challenging years guiding the nation through Depression and now war, yet his eyes remained bright and alert, missing nothing.
"The honor is mine, Captain," he replied, a hint of his Hudson Valley aristocratic accent coming through. "Your efforts have raised millions for our boys overseas. That's a victory as important as any won on the battlefield."
"Thank you, sir," Steve managed, though he couldn't help feeling that a real victory would involve actually being on that battlefield. The sentiment must have shown in his expression, for Roosevelt's eyes narrowed slightly in understanding.
"Not quite what you had in mind when you volunteered for Dr. Erskine's procedure, is it?" the President asked, lowering his voice so only Steve could hear.
Steve's surprise must have been evident, for Roosevelt chuckled softly. "Yes, I know about Project Rebirth. Not all the details, of course—even presidents don't get to know everything—but enough." He gestured for Steve to lean closer. "Colonel Phillips reports directly to General Marshall, but occasionally his more... colorful assessments reach my desk."
Steve wasn't sure how to respond, but Roosevelt continued, saving him the trouble. "I understand from those reports that there's more to your story than the public knows," he said, his shrewd eyes studying Steve with interest. "Much more."
"Yes, sir," Steve confirmed, still processing the fact that the President of the United States was conversant with classified details of his transformation.
From a few feet away, Senator Brandt watched their extended conversation with poorly concealed eagerness. He had positioned himself just far enough away to respect the protocol surrounding the President while remaining close enough to step in at the first opportunity. Steve noted how Brandt's eyes darted between them and the journalists documenting the evening, clearly calculating the political value of each moment.
"Tell me, Captain," Roosevelt said, gesturing toward a nearby aide who promptly brought over a glass of whiskey for the President, "what does it feel like to be a superhero? To be what the papers are calling 'a real-life comic book character'?"
There was a twinkle in Roosevelt's eye that suggested the question wasn't entirely serious. Steve considered his response carefully, aware that several nearby conversations had quieted as people strained to hear the exchange.
"I think you know the answer to that better than most, Mr. President," Steve replied with a small smile.
Roosevelt's eyebrows rose in surprise, then he broke into delighted laughter—a genuine, unguarded moment that drew attention from across the room. "Touché, Captain!" he exclaimed, raising his glass in a small toast. "I suppose we're both playing roles larger than ourselves these days."
The President's laughter had drawn Eleanor Roosevelt to their side. "Franklin, you mustn't monopolize Captain America," she admonished gently, though her eyes showed warmth. "Others wish to meet him as well."
"Of course, my dear," Roosevelt acquiesced. "Though I doubt anyone else will give me such a refreshingly honest answer."
Mrs. Roosevelt extended her hand to Steve. "Your performance was quite impressive, Captain. Though I wonder if all that strength might be better utilized elsewhere."
"Eleanor," the President cautioned good-naturedly, "always cutting to the heart of the matter."
"Someone must," she replied with serene confidence. Turning back to Steve, she continued, "The children at the Bethesda Naval Hospital have been asking about you. Perhaps you might consider a visit there during your stay in Washington? It would mean a great deal to those young people."
"I'd be honored, ma'am," Steve replied without hesitation.
"Splendid. My secretary will contact Senator Brandt's office to arrange it." With a gracious nod, she moved on to speak with other guests, her tall figure commanding respect throughout the room.
Before further conversation could develop, Secretary of War Stimson approached, his expression serious. "Mr. President, a moment if I may?" His eyes flickered briefly to Steve. "Military matter."
Roosevelt nodded. "Of course, Henry." To Steve, he added, "Duty calls, Captain. But before you continue down the reception line, let me say this." His expression grew more somber, the public persona receding to reveal something more genuine. "Every man serves in his own way, Captain. For now, your battlefield is here, boosting morale and financing our war machine. But a soldier with your... unique abilities won't remain a performer forever. Your time will come."
The conviction in Roosevelt's voice carried the weight of a promise. With a final nod, the President turned his attention to Stimson, leaving Steve to continue greeting the assembled dignitaries.
The remainder of the reception passed in a blur of handshakes and brief conversations. General Marshall inquired about Steve's tactical training. Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter engaged him in a surprisingly philosophical discussion about the symbolic importance of Captain America in American jurisprudence. British Ambassador Lord Halifax conveyed King George's interest in perhaps arranging a similar performance for Allied troops in England.
Throughout it all, Senator Brandt hovered nearby, inserting himself into photographs and conversations at strategic moments. Steve couldn't help but notice how the Senator steered interactions toward topics that highlighted his own role in "discovering" Captain America, occasionally referencing his committee work and future political aspirations within earshot of influential figures.
"The President seems quite taken with you," Brandt commented during a brief lull, his tone casual but his eyes calculating. "That extended conversation at the beginning of the reception—quite remarkable. He doesn't give that much time to most cabinet secretaries."
"He's very down to earth," Steve replied diplomatically. "Seems to genuinely care about the troops."
"Of course, of course," Brandt agreed hastily. "Very concerned about our boys overseas. Speaking of which, I've been thinking we might expand the tour. Perhaps some USO shows closer to the front? Nothing dangerous, of course, but close enough to give the fighting men a real morale boost."
The prospect of getting closer to the actual war effort caught Steve's attention. "I'd be in favor of that, Senator."
"Excellent! I'll have Reynolds look into it." Brandt beamed, already envisioning the publicity. "Just think—Captain America bringing a piece of home to our brave boys in uniform! The newsreels will eat it up."
As the evening drew to a close, Steve found himself in a final, brief conversation with the President as guests prepared to depart. Roosevelt beckoned him over with a subtle gesture as White House staff assisted him in preparing to leave the reception.
"Captain Rogers," the President said, using Steve's actual name for the first time that evening, "I want you to know that I understand your frustration. Men of action rarely find satisfaction in symbolic roles, no matter how important those symbols may be."
Steve was struck by Roosevelt's perception. "Thank you, sir. I'm trying to make the best of it."
"And doing admirably," Roosevelt assured him. "But remember—this war will not be won quickly, despite what some of my generals promise. Your moment will come when it is most needed." He glanced across the room to where Brandt was deep in conversation with a newspaper publisher. "And perhaps sooner than the good Senator anticipates."
With those cryptic words, Roosevelt nodded to his attendants, who began wheeling him from the room. Guests parted respectfully, the evening officially concluded with the President's departure.
As the East Room emptied, Steve found himself standing alone near the stage where he had performed. The elaborate patriotic decorations seemed somehow hollow in the aftermath, mere trappings for a performance that had more to do with politics than patriotism.
Yet the President's words stayed with him, offering a glimmer of hope that his current assignment wasn't permanent—that eventually, he might have the chance to make a real difference in the war. Roosevelt had seen through the costume to the soldier beneath, had recognized the desire to serve that drove Steve far more than any applause or adulation.
"Ready to go, Captain?" Reynolds appeared at his elbow. "Senator Brandt is arranging a late dinner with the Secretary of the Treasury and several newspaper publishers. Your presence is requested."
Steve nodded, resigned to another evening of being displayed like a prize exhibit.
—
NEW YORK - OCTOBER 1943
Radio City Music Hall represented the pinnacle of the tour—a homecoming triumph for the Brooklyn-born hero who had, in just a few short months, become America's most recognizable symbol of hope and perseverance. The iconic venue's marquee blazed with his name in lights, towering above Sixth Avenue where crowds gathered hours before each performance, hoping for a glimpse of the man who had shaken the President's hand and captured the nation's imagination.
The production itself had expanded dramatically since those first tentative performances in Buffalo. What had begun as a modest stage show with a few chorus girls and basic sets had evolved into a spectacular extravaganza worthy of the venerable hall. Dozens of dancers in increasingly elaborate star-spangled costumes performed precision choreography on multi-tiered sets depicting stylized European battlefields and American factories working in patriotic unison. A full orchestra delivered stirring renditions of martial music interspersed with Irving Berlin's latest patriotic compositions.
The finale had become legendary, repeated in newspaper accounts and breathless radio reports—Captain America himself holding an actual 750-pound motorcycle overhead with apparent ease while three singers in blue helmets spelling "U-S-A" performed a complex vocal arrangement atop the vehicle. The audience's reaction each night was electric, a combination of astonishment at the feat of strength and patriotic fervor stirred by the unmistakable symbolism.
"Three shows tomorrow, Cap," Reynolds reminded Steve as they left the stage door after the second performance of the day. "The matinee is already overbooked—we've had to arrange for speakers outside so the overflow crowd can at least hear the show."
Steve nodded, the weight of responsibility settling on him more heavily than any motorcycle he'd hoisted overhead. The bond sales figures had become staggering since the White House performance. His appearance with President Roosevelt had transformed Captain America from a popular touring attraction to a bona fide national institution. The Treasury Department had created a special accounting division just to track the "Captain America Effect" on war bond purchases, and the numbers told a remarkable story—wherever the tour went, bond sales increased by an average of 427% compared to pre-tour levels.
The audiences were enormous, the applause thunderous, and the war chest growing with unprecedented speed. Beyond the direct bond sales at shows, Captain America had become a genuine commercial phenomenon—his face appeared on posters and billboards throughout the country, trading cards exchanged eagerly by schoolchildren, comic books that sold out within hours of hitting newsstands, and even breakfast cereal boxes proudly proclaiming "The Breakfast of American Heroes!" Children wore Captain America Halloween costumes and played with Captain America action figures hastily manufactured to meet explosive demand. Adults sported Captain America pins on their lapels and purchased Captain America commemorative plates to display in china cabinets alongside family heirlooms.
Department stores in major cities had established "Captain America Victory Corners" where shoppers could purchase an expanding array of licensed merchandise while simultaneously buying bonds. Macy's had transformed an entire floor into a "Heroes of America" exhibition where Captain America memorabilia was displayed alongside historical artifacts of American courage, from Revolutionary War muskets to fragments of Old Ironsides.
The phenomenon extended beyond Steve to include the other "mystery men" from the HYDRA chase, though they remained absent from the public eye. Toy companies, recognizing the commercial potential of these colorful characters, had rushed into production with Green Lantern rings that glowed in the dark, Human Torch figurines with flint sparkers in their feet, and Flash sneakers that promised to make children run faster. Comic books featuring these characters consistently sold out, despite increasing print runs to meet demand.
For the public, these colorful heroes represented hope in dark times—symbols of American ingenuity and courage that would inevitably triumph over fascism. The carefully constructed narrative suggested that these extraordinary individuals were working secretly behind the scenes while Captain America served as their public representative, boosting morale on the home front. Few questioned whether the real individuals existed, and those who did were quickly reassured by official sources that they were merely propaganda creations—useful fictions to inspire the public during challenging times.
Between shows at Radio City, Steve found moments to explore the city of his birth, now seeing it through the eyes of his enhanced body and transformed social position. With a military escort to keep overeager fans at a manageable distance, he revisited familiar landmarks that had once seemed imposing but now felt scaled to a smaller man than he had become. The Brooklyn Bridge, which had appeared endlessly vast in his childhood, could now be crossed in minutes at his enhanced pace. Buildings that had towered over the sickly boy from Brooklyn now seemed modest against his new stature.
His most significant excursion came on a rare day off, when he convinced his handlers to let him visit his old neighborhood in Brooklyn without prior announcement. The request had been granted reluctantly and with conditions—an unmarked car would remain nearby, and two plainclothes agents would follow at a discreet distance to manage any spontaneous crowd situations.
"Two hours, Captain," his military liaison had specified. "Any longer and word will spread."
Steve had expected a quiet, anonymous walk through the streets of his youth. What he found instead stopped him in his tracks.
The neighborhood had transformed in his absence. American flags hung from nearly every window. Storefronts bore freshly painted signs proclaiming "Home of Captain America" and "Brooklyn's Own Hero." The corner grocery where he'd worked briefly as a stock boy after his mother's death had been renamed "Cap's Corner Market," with a crudely painted shield decorating its awning. The local five-and-dime featured a window display of Captain America merchandise, arranged around a newspaper clipping about "the local boy made good."
Most surprising was the small park where he'd suffered countless beatings from neighborhood bullies. Previously little more than a dusty square with a few scattered benches, it had been renovated and rechristened "Rogers Memorial Park." A modest bronze plaque had been installed near the entrance, reading: "Dedicated to Private Steven Rogers, Brooklyn's Captain America, and to all who fight for freedom at home and abroad."
As Steve stood staring at the plaque, an elderly man approached, leaning heavily on a cane. "They put that up last month after he met the President," the man explained, clearly not recognizing Steve in his civilian clothes and pulled-down hat. "The whole neighborhood pitched in. Cleanup day and everything."
"It's... nice," Steve managed, genuinely moved by the gesture even as he felt oddly dislocated from the person being commemorated.
"My grandson collects his comic books," the old man continued. "Five years old. Wants to be Captain America when he grows up." He chuckled. "Keeps saying he'll take his vitamins so he can get strong like Captain America. Doctor says he's never seen a kid so excited about eating vegetables."
The old man squinted suddenly, leaning closer as a shaft of sunlight illuminated Steve's features. Recognition dawned slowly in his weathered face, eyes widening in disbelief.
"Wait a minute..." he said, voice dropping to a whisper. "You're... you're him, aren't you? You're Steve Rogers!"
Steve nodded slightly, offering a small smile and placing a finger to his lips. "Just visiting the old neighborhood, Mr. Garrity."
"I'll be damned!" the old man exclaimed, previous discretion forgotten. "Little Stevie Rogers! I remember you sweeping the sidewalk outside Goldstein's Pharmacy for nickels!" His voice had risen with excitement, carrying clearly across the quiet park. "It is you! It's Captain America!"
A woman watering flowers in a window box across the street looked up sharply. "Is that—? Oh my God, it's him! It's really him!"
Within minutes, word spread through the neighborhood with astonishing speed. Doors opened, people emerged from shops and apartments, and an impromptu gathering formed around Steve. The plainclothes agents moved closer, radioing for the car, but Steve gestured for them to hold back. These weren't just fans—these were neighbors, many of whom had known the skinny, sickly Steve Rogers long before the serum.
"Mrs. Abramowitz," Steve greeted an elderly woman who pushed through the growing crowd. "You look well."
The woman, who had lived on the third floor of his building and occasionally brought soup when he was bedridden with pneumonia, gaped in astonishment. "Steven? Is it really you?" Her gnarled hand reached up to touch his face, as if confirming he wasn't an apparition.
"It's me, ma'am," he confirmed, smiling at her familiar face—one of the few that had shown kindness to the orphaned boy he'd been.
"We've seen you in the newsreels," she said, still holding his face between her hands. "So big and strong now! But your eyes—those are still my Steven's eyes."
The gathering swelled as word continued to spread. The owner of the local bakery arrived with hastily boxed pastries. "On the house for our Captain!" he declared, pressing them into Steve's hands. Children darted between adults' legs, clutching homemade shields and comic books, eyes wide with disbelief at finding their hero on their own streets.
Someone began singing "The Star-Spangled Banner," and others joined in, the spontaneous chorus rising over the brownstones. Steve stood motionless, overwhelmed by the display. These were people who had largely ignored or pitied him for most of his life, yet now they embraced him as their own—their champion, their representative to the wider world.
Eventually, he found himself being led to the tenement building where he had grown up, the crowd parting to create a path. The building had been spruced up—fresh paint on the front door, window boxes with autumn flowers, a small American flag hanging beside the entrance. A hand-painted banner stretched across the facade: "Birthplace of Captain America."
"The mayor came by last week," explained Mr. Castellano, who had been the building's superintendent since before Steve was born. "Said it's a historic landmark now. Got some fancy paperwork and everything."
Steve gazed up at the windows of what had been his family's apartment, now occupied by a young family. The mother stood at the window, holding an infant while two older children waved enthusiastically. The eldest boy wore a Captain America t-shirt, his face lighting up when Steve offered a salute in return.
"They're saying the President might name a ship after you," Castellano continued, puffing up with borrowed pride. "An aircraft carrier! Can you imagine? Our little Stevie Rogers—"
"Still just Steve, Mr. Castellano," he interjected gently, though he knew it wasn't entirely true anymore. He wasn't "just Steve" to anyone now, perhaps not even to himself.
The impromptu celebration continued, neighbors bringing out food and drinks, someone producing an accordion for music, children clamoring for autographs and stories. His military handlers exchanged concerned glances as the crowd grew, but Steve reassured them with a nod. This wasn't a security risk; this was a homecoming.
Later that day, as the October sun began to set over the Brooklyn rooftops, Steve made his final personal pilgrimage. In a small, well-maintained cemetery in Queens, he located his parents' modest graves—his father's military headstone from the Great War and his mother's simpler marker beside it. Both had been recently tended, with fresh flowers placed carefully between them. A note attached to the bouquet read simply, "From a friend of Steve's." The handwriting was unfamiliar, but Steve suspected Peter Parker might have made the gesture.
He stood silently before the graves, wondering what his parents would make of his transformation—not just the physical changes, but his elevation to national symbol. His father had died in service to his country; his mother had worked herself to death in a tuberculosis ward, helping others until her final days. They had been heroes in their own quiet ways, without recognition or parades. Would they approve of what he had become? Or would they, too, question whether this was the best use of the gifts he'd been given?
As October drew to a close, Steve found himself returning to these questions with increasing frequency. News from the European front grew increasingly concerning, casting a shadow over his triumphal New York run. The Allies were making progress in Italy, but at terrible cost. Reports of unusual HYDRA weaponry had begun to filter back through military channels—weapons that disintegrated men where they stood, leaving no bodies to bury and no dog tags to send home.
Each night after the final show, Steve would return to his hotel suite—a far cry from the Brooklyn tenement of his youth—and pore over whatever classified reports Brandt's military connections could secure for him. The senator had realized that keeping Steve informed about the war's progress helped maintain his cooperation with the bond tour, and had arranged limited access to redacted intelligence briefings.
Steve read these reports with mounting frustration, tracing battle lines on maps and studying tactical assessments. The real war was happening an ocean away, while he performed the same tired routine night after night, smiling for photographs and signing autographs. He had raised millions for the war effort, inspired countless Americans to greater sacrifice, and become a symbol recognized around the world—yet he had never fired a shot in anger, never faced the enemy directly, never stood alongside the men giving their lives for the causes he represented on stage.
Then, on the final morning of the Radio City engagement, came the orders that would change everything.
—
USO TOUR - OCTOBER 1943
"The 107th?" Steve asked, sitting up straighter as Reynolds handed him the latest itinerary.
"Among others," Reynolds confirmed, looking less than thrilled about the development. "Apparently, someone in high places thinks the boys at the front could use a morale boost. We ship out tomorrow for Italy."
Steve's heart raced at the news. The 107th—Bucky's unit. After months of playing the hero while real soldiers fought and died, he would finally be close enough to the action to see the war firsthand. And perhaps, more importantly, to reunite with his oldest friend.
The USO girls reacted to the news with mixed emotions—excitement at the adventure of traveling overseas, anxiety about being so close to the fighting. For many of them, the war had been an abstract concept, something happening far away that affected them primarily through rationing and absent loved ones. Now they would witness its reality up close.
As the bus rolled toward their final stateside performance in New York, Steve gazed out the window at the passing American landscape. He thought of those who had shaped his journey to this point—Dr. Erskine with his faith in the "man inside," Peggy Carter with her unflinching strength, Colonel Phillips with his gruff pragmatism. He thought of Alan Scott, Jim Hammond, and Jay Garrick—men like him who had been transformed by circumstance into something extraordinary. And he thought of Bucky Barnes, his brother in all but blood, fighting the real war while Steve had been selling bonds.
"Five miles from the front," Reynolds was saying, reviewing the logistical details of their Italian tour. "Close enough for the men to attend between rotations, but not so close as to put the performers at undue risk."
Five miles from the front. For Captain America, it would be the closest he had come to actual combat since chasing down Kruger in New York. It wasn't leading his own platoon, as Brandt had once promised, but it was a start—a chance to see the real face of war, to connect with the men actually fighting it.
Perhaps most importantly, it was a chance to prove to himself that underneath the star-spangled costume and scripted heroics, Steve Rogers could still make a difference in the war that had claimed so many lives, including Dr. Erskine's.
As the bus continued its journey, Steve found himself hoping that the real Captain America might finally emerge from behind the mask of the fictional one—not the star-spangled man with a plan, but the soldier he had always wanted to be.