12 Steve Rogers

November 1942, at the New Haven Recruiting Station in Connecticut, the recruiter's voice boomed through the crowded room, "O'Connell, Michael," echoing like a preacher among the faithful. He was a lean man with a voice that belied his slender build: sharp and commanding.

"Kaminski, Henry," he called out next, his voice slicing through the din of nervous chatter and shuffling feet.

Steve Rogers, a wisp of a man with more guts than muscle, glanced up from the newspaper he was reading. "Boy, a lot of guys are getting killed over there," he murmured, almost to himself, his eyes tracing the grim headlines.

"Rogers, Steven," the recruiter announced, snapping Steve back to the present.

Beside him, a recruit leaned over and mumbled quietly, "Kind of makes you think twice about enlisting, huh?"

Steve's response was quick, almost reflexive. "Nope." His voice carried a resolve that seemed at odds with his slender frame.

As Steve approached the recruiter, the man's eyes briefly flickered with something akin to pity. "Rogers. What did your father die of?"

"Mustard gas. He was in the 107th Infantry. I was hoping I could be assigned—" Steve's words tumbled out, eager and rushed.

"Your mother?" the recruiter interrupted, his pen poised over the paper.

"She was a nurse in a TB ward. Got hit. Couldn't shake it," Steve replied, his voice a little sorrowful.

"Sorry, son." The recruiter's tone softened for a moment as he scanned the litany of health issues listed on Steve's form: asthma, scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, sinusitis, high blood pressure, palpitations, chronic cold.

"Look, just give me a chance," Steve pleaded, his eyes burning with a fire that his body didn't mirror.

"You'll be ineligible on your asthma alone," the recruiter said, the '4F' stamp in his hand hovering like a guillotine over Steve's dreams.

[4F = unfit for military service]

"Is there anything you can do?" Steve's voice was almost a whisper, a last-ditch effort against the inevitable.

"I'm doing it. I'm saving your life," the recruiter intoned, his voice devoid of emotion as he moved to stamp the form.

"Wait." The single word cut through the room like a sharp breeze. Peggy Carter stood there, her presence commanding attention. She carried herself with an authority that made even the recruiter pause.

Peggy eyed Steve, her gaze sharp and assessing. "I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve, and I'm here on behalf of Dr. Alexander Sterling to offer Mr. Rogers a chance—" she spoke.

"I'll take it," Steve interjected, his words quick, almost tripping over each other in their haste to be heard.

"Good," Peggy replied, her face betraying none of her inner skepticism. With a decisive movement, she stamped Steve's file with a '1A'.

[1A = available for military service]

"Follow me. We're going to New York," she instructed, turning on her heel with a swish of her skirt. Steve, a mixture of apprehension and excitement, hurried after her, leaving behind the murmurs and stares of the other men. The recruiter watched them go, the '4F' stamp still in his hand.

***

New York, at the Army Training Camp, the sky hung low and gray, creating a dreary blanket that seemed to muffle the sounds of marching and shouted orders. Peggy Carter, with her posture as stiff and authoritative as her uniform, led a scrawny Steve Rogers through the sea of uniformed men, toward Colonel Phillips and Dr. Erskine, who were deeply engaged in conversation.

Exchanging a brief but loaded glance with Colonel Phillips, Peggy positioned herself slightly behind him, her watchful gaze fixed on Steve. Colonel Phillips, his demeanor as hard as the medals on his chest, eyed Steve with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "Rogers, huh? You're Dr. Sterling's pick?" he asked, his voice rough and unwelcoming.

"Yes, sir," Steve responded, maintaining a steady voice despite his nerves.

Phillips grunted, his eyes briefly scanning the field before him. "Follow Agent Carter and line up with the other new recruits."

Without hesitation, Peggy pivoted sharply, moving toward the training area. Steve, his heart thumping in his chest, followed.

Phillips turned to Dr. Erskine, his brow furrowed. "Why are you here, Doctor? Shouldn't you be setting up the Vita-Ray Chamber for our super soldier project in Brooklyn?"

Dr. Erskine, with a gentle demeanor, smiled slightly. "I wanted to see the man Dr. Sterling recommended for myself. Besides, Dr. Sterling and Mr. Stark can handle the preparations."

As Dr. Erskine's words faded, Colonel Phillips moved to the forefront. The recruits, lined up at attention, watched as he paced back and forth before them. His presence commanded their full attention. "General Patton has said wars are fought with weapons, but they are won by men. We are going to win this war because we have the best men," he declared, his voice resonating with authority. His gaze then drifted to Steve's frail frame as he continued, "And because they're going to get better. Much better."

He paused, letting his words sink in like stones in a pond. "The Strategic Scientific Reserve is an allied effort made up of the best minds of the free world. Our goal is to create the best army in history. But every army starts with one man. At the end of this week, we will choose that man. He'll be the first of a new breed of super soldiers. And they will personally escort Adolf Hitler to the gates of hell."

***

"Faster, ladies, come on! My grandmother has more life in her, God rest her soul. Move it!" Peggy's voice was a whip, cracking over the recruits' heads as they struggled through push-ups, Steve barely managing one.

"You're not really thinking of going along with Dr. Sterling's recommendation and picking Rogers, are you?" Colonel Phillips's voice was incredulous, almost mocking.

"I am more than just thinking about it...I understand why Dr. Sterling chose him, and I agree. He's clearly the right choice," Dr. Erskine replied, his eyes never leaving Steve's struggling form.

"When Dr. Sterling recommended a ninety-pound asthmatic, I let it slide. I thought, maybe he could be useful, like a gerbil. Never thought you guys would actually pick him," Phillips scoffed. "Stick a needle in that kid's arm, it's gonna go right through him."

Phillips muttered, watching Steve gasp for air during jumping jacks, "Look at that. He's making me cry."

"I am looking for qualities beyond the physical, and it seems so is Dr. Sterling. We're of one mind," Dr. Erskine asserted calmly.

"Do you know how long it took to set up this project in Brooklyn?" Phillips's voice was rising, a mix of frustration and disbelief.

"Yes," Dr. Erskine replied simply.

"All the groveling I had to do in front of Senator what's-his-name's committees," Phillips continued, his voice a low growl.

"Brandt. Yes, I know. I am well aware of your efforts, but Steve has the heart of a hero," Dr. Erskine countered.

"You don't win wars with heart, Doctor. You win wars with guts," Phillips retorted, picking up a dummy grenade and hurling it into the training area.

"Grenade!" he bellowed.

Panic ensued as recruits scrambled. "Oh, no!" "Move!" "Run!"

Steve, without a second thought, threw himself onto the grenade, shouting, "Get away! Get back!"

A pall of silence fell over the training field. The recruits froze, exchanging stunned looks as Steve curled protectively around the grenade.

Five endless seconds passed. Finally, an officer shouted, "It was a dummy grenade! All clear. Men, back in formation."

Colonel Phillips's face looked as if he'd eaten a pile of shit, while Dr. Erskine wore a smug grin.

"Is this a test?" Steve asked, his voice shaking slightly.

"He's still skinny," Phillips muttered as he strode off briskly, his mind undoubtedly wrestling with the skinny runt's bizarre heroism.

***

The night before the super-soldier procedure, Steve Rogers, amid the brewing storm, sat in his modest quarters filled with nervous anticipation.

Knock Knock.

The sound was sharp and unexpected. Steve, with a quickened heartbeat, moved to open the door, revealing a figure that seemed to emerge from the darkness itself. Alexander stood there, an enigmatic presence wrapped in black shades and a flowing black trench coat.

"At last. Good to meet you, Steve," Alexander's voice was smooth, almost musical. "As you no doubt have guessed, I'm Dr. Sterling."

Steve, slightly embarrassed that he hadn't guessed, extended his hand. "It's an honor to meet you."

"No, the honor is mine," Alexander replied, his expression inscrutable behind the dark shades.

Steve seemed puzzled by the response but remained polite as he gestured inside. "Oh, yes... please come in."

Alexander moved into the room with a fluid grace, taking a seat with an air of casual authority. Steve, a bundle of nerves, stood before him, the very picture of a soldier at attention.

"Please. Sit," Alexander motioned to a chair across from him.

Steve nodded frantically, pulling up a chair and sitting rigidly, his eyes fixed on the enigmatic figure before him.

"I imagine that right now you're feeling a bit like Alice. Tumbling down the rabbit hole," Alexander mused, a hint of a smile playing at his lips.

"You could say that," Steve replied, his voice carrying a tone of confusion.

"Do you believe in fate, Steve?" Alexander questioned.

"No," Steve's answer was immediate, firm.

"Why?"

"Because I don't like the idea that I'm not in control of my life."

"I know exactly what you mean," Alexander leaned back, his gaze piercing. "Aren't you curious as to why I recommended you?"

"Yes, that's what I've been wanting to ask you. Why me?" Steve's question was laden with curiosity.

"Because you're the chosen one, Neo...uhm, I mean Steve!" Alexander's declaration was both outlandish and delivered with the utmost seriousness.

"I don't understand," Steve said, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Unfortunately, I can't say anything more. You have to experience it for yourself." Alexander's hand moved to his trench coat, gripping something concealed within.

He leaned forward, the air thick with tension. "This is your last chance. After this, there is no turning back." His hand opened to reveal a vial containing a swirling purple liquid. "You take the purple vial, embrace this opportunity, and I'll show you how deep the rabbit hole goes. OR," he closed his fist around the vial, hiding it from view, "you don't take it, continue your normal life, and forget this ever happened."

"Now. What's your choice, Steve?" Alexander's hand opened once more, presenting the vial as an invitation to the unknown.

Without hesitation, Steve reached for the vial. As he was about to uncap it, Alexander's hand shot out, stopping him.

"Not now. You must drink this right before the procedure tomorrow," Alexander stated abruptly, rising and exiting the room as swiftly as he had entered, leaving a bewildered Steve behind.

"..."

"Damn, I'm good!" Alexander murmured after the door closed behind him for his sensational Morpheus impersonation.