The dimly lit recruitment pavilion buzzed with the low hum of overhead lights, casting a sterile glow over the examination room. Steve Rogers sat on the edge of a metal table, his shirt folded neatly beside him. A young doctor, barely older than Steve, removed the blood pressure cuff from his arm with a quick, clinical motion.
"You can get dressed," the doctor said flatly.
Before Steve could reach for his shirt, a nurse entered, whispering something into the doctor's ear. The doctor paused, glanced back at Steve with an unreadable expression, and nodded.
"Wait here," he said, already turning toward the door.
Steve's brow furrowed. "Am I in trouble?"
The doctor didn't answer, just repeated, "Wait here," and stepped out with the nurse in tow.
Left alone, Steve glanced around uncertainly. His eyes landed on a bold poster hanging crooked on the wall:
"Falsifying your enlistment form is a federal offense. Traitors lie to their country."
Steve's stomach twisted. He knelt to fumble with his shoes, heart thudding faster with each second. Just as he pulled one boot halfway on, the curtain was suddenly yanked aside with a swish. A towering Military Police officer stood framed in the opening. Steve looked up, frozen mid-motion.
"I'm definitely in trouble," he muttered to himself.
But instead of the officer taking him away, another man stepped in—a distinguished gentleman in a crisp lab coat, holding a file folder. His face bore a calm, curious expression behind wire-framed glasses.
"You're eager to head overseas," the man said, flipping through the folder. "Planning to kill some Nazis?"
Steve blinked. "Sorry, what?"
The man extended a hand. "Doctor Abraham Erskine. I work with the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
Steve took the offered hand, wary but respectful. "Steve Rogers. Uh… where are you from, Doctor?"
"Queens," Erskine replied smoothly. "Utopia Parkway. Though before that… Germany. Does that trouble you?"
Steve hesitated, then shook his head. "No. Not really."
Erskine's smile widened. "And you? You're from New Haven? Paramus?" He raised the file again, flipping through pages. "Five enlistment attempts. Five different cities."
Steve scratched his neck awkwardly. "That might be the wrong file—"
"I'm not interested in the exams," Erskine interrupted gently. "I'm interested in the fact that you tried. Five times."
He lowered the file and studied Steve with sharp eyes. "You still didn't answer my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?"
"Is that… is that part of the test?" Steve asked.
"It is," Erskine said plainly.
Steve took a deep breath. "I don't like bullies, Doctor. Doesn't matter where they're from."
The doctor's eyes crinkled, as if that answer pleased him. "There are already enough strong men in this war. What we need now, perhaps, are the men who know what strength is… because they've never had it."
"Maybe," Steve admitted. "What do you do exactly, Doctor?"
"I believe," Erskine said, placing the file on a nearby table, "that every person carries within them the potential for greatness. All that's needed… is a chance to bring it out."
He reached for a stamp, but paused. "I can give you that chance. Just that. Nothing more."
"That's all I've ever wanted," Steve said.
Erskine smiled, poised to stamp the form. "And where is the little guy really from?"
"Brooklyn," Steve answered with a faint grin.
Thump. The stamp came down hard: 1A.
Erskine looked up, thoughtful. "One more thing. Earlier, there was another young man with you. Who was he?"
"Oh. That was Alex—my older brother. He's waiting outside."
"You two don't look very alike."
"Most people say that," Steve admitted with a chuckle.
Erskine seemed amused. "He's not enlisting?"
"He wants to," Steve said, his voice lowering. "But he didn't. Because of me."
"Because he wants to protect you," Erskine said quietly.
Steve nodded.
"Then now that you're in," the doctor said with a knowing smile, "he'll follow. That's how brothers are."
"Yeah," Steve agreed softly. "He will."
"Good," Erskine said, gathering the stamped file. "Then I'll see both of you at the training camp."
---
Hydra Headquarters – High in the Mountains
Perched atop a sheer cliff, a solitary guardpost stood like a sentinel, surveying the icy wilderness. Inside the stone-and-steel complex, Johann Schmidt approached the lab door with purposeful steps.
"Are you ready, Doctor Zola?" he asked.
In the adjoining chamber, a monitor flickered to life, revealing Dr. Arnim Zola's distorted visage filling the screen. But the real Zola stood across the room, bent over a console, peering into a camera.
"My equipment demands the utmost precision," Zola replied, not looking up. "Even a small miscalculation—"
His voice trailed off as the camera adjusted its focus. At the center of the room sat a complicated mechanism, cradling a vacant chamber surrounded by thick cables and humming conduits.
"I admit," Zola added, "I don't know if it will work at all."
Schmidt was adjusting a thick power conduit connected to a massive battery. He gave Zola a sideways glance. "Do you believe the conductors can hold long enough for the transfer?"
Zola gave a slight shrug. "With this… artifact? Nothing is certain."
He gestured to the carved wooden box resting on a nearby table—the one retrieved from Norway, housing something ancient and terrifying. Surrounding it were worn tomes, opened to images of myth: a giant tree with serpents coiled at its base… a glowing cube laying waste to legions.
Schmidt's fingers brushed over the box reverently. "If it fails, we've lost time. But if it succeeds…"
His voice lowered, almost reverent. "We may hold the power of gods in our hands."
With that, Schmidt opened the box. A burst of brilliant blue light spilled out, forcing Zola to hurriedly don his tinted glasses. Schmidt carefully lifted an object glowing with raw, pulsing energy—the Tesseract. He placed it in the cradle. A protective shield slid down with a hiss, encasing the chamber.
Through the smoked glass, the outline of the cube shimmered.
Schmidt turned a dial. The cube pulsed. A gauge marked ENERGIENBATTERIE flickered on: 20%. Then 40%. Climbing steadily.
Still, the battery remained inert—dark and cold.
"We're stable at seventy percent," Zola reported. "Well within safety margins."
Schmidt barely acknowledged him. "I did not come all this way to play it safe."
He turned the dial. 80%. Then 90%.
"Doctor," Zola warned, "at this range, the energy—"
Schmidt didn't hesitate. The dial clicked to 100%.
The cube erupted. Energy poured out in a searing wave, coursing through the conduits. The battery lit up, veins of blue surging like lightning trapped in glass.
For a heartbeat, it seemed the entire room would explode. Then—light coalesced in a vortex above the cube. For an instant, a vision appeared within the swirl: something vast, alien, otherworldly.
And then it vanished. A blinding bolt burst from the cannon, vaporizing the wooden target and blasting a smoking hole in the far wall.
Zola yanked the power switch. The cube dimmed — but the battery continued to glow, pulsing with power.
He turned to Schmidt, pale and breathless. "Did you see—?"
Schmidt didn't respond. He was staring at the devastation, eyes wide with wonder. A slow, satisfied smile crept onto his lips.
"Thank you, Doctor," he said at last. "Your designs have exceeded expectations…"
He glanced at the ruined lab. "Though we may need to reinforce the walls."
Zola checked his instruments, awe blooming across his features. "The power output… It could fuel entire fleets. Ten battleships, maybe more."
"This," he said quietly, "could change the course of the war."
Schmidt poured a measure of whiskey, his hand trembling ever so slightly.
"No, Doctor Zola," he said. "This will change the world."
---
To be continued