Camp Lehigh, New Jersey — June 21, 1943 — Night
Steve Rogers sat alone on the edge of his bunk, elbows resting against his knees. The other beds around him had long since emptied, leaving behind stripped mattresses and open footlockers.
Tomorrow was supposed to change everything.
At least, that was what everyone kept telling him.
Steve leaned back and stared toward the ceiling.
He should have been sleeping.
He'd tried.
It wasn't happening.
Footsteps sounded outside the barracks.
Doctor Erskine appeared in the doorway with a bottle and two glasses.
"Can't sleep?"
"Got the jitters, I guess."
"Me too."
Erskine held up the bottle.
Steve looked at it. "I thought doctors were supposed to help with that."
"I am German. We have different methods."
Steve laughed and made room for him.
Erskine pulled a chair toward the bunk and sat down. He set the glasses between them, then studied Steve.
For a few seconds, neither man spoke.
Steve finally broke the silence.
"Can I ask you something?"
Erskine lifted an eyebrow.
"Just one?"
Steve smiled, but it quickly disappeared.
A question had been bothering him since Camp Lehigh. Since the grenade. Since Colonel Phillips had looked at him as though Erskine had lost his mind.
Steve had seen the other candidates. Men taller than him. Stronger. Faster. Men who already looked like the soldiers America wanted.
And yet tomorrow, Steve Rogers would be the one.
"Why me?"
Erskine's expression changed.
He looked down at the bottle in his hands.
Then he sighed.
"I suppose that is the only question that matters."
Erskine poured himself a small drink before turning the bottle around in his hand.
"Made in Augsburg. My city."
Steve looked at the label.
Erskine's thumb moved slowly across the glass.
People sometimes forget that the first country the Nazis conquered was their own. Erskine kept his thumb moving slowly across the glass.
Steve looked up.
"I do not excuse what Germany has become," Erskine continued. "My people felt small."
He met Steve's eyes.
"You know something about feeling small, yes?"
Steve looked at his thin wrists, then back at Erskine.
"Something."
Erskine gave a quiet laugh, though there wasn't much humor in it.
"After the first war, Germany was humiliated. People were angry. Hungry. They wanted someone to tell them it wasn't their fault they had become weak."
He took the bottle between his hands.
"Then Hitler came. He told them Germany would be strong again. That they would never have to feel small."
Steve understood why Erskine had asked him.
"And they believed him?"
"Everyone saw an opportunity."
"And men were willing to follow him."
Erskine took a drink.
"One of them was someone I once called a colleague."
Steve frowned.
"Who?"
Erskine stared into his glass.
"Frederick Vought."
The name meant nothing to Steve.
Not yet.
"We thought we were going to help people."
Erskine's eyes had gone somewhere else now, far from the empty barracks.
"For Frederick, that wasn't enough."
He reached inside his coat.
Steve watched as Erskine removed a small photograph.
He held it for several seconds before handing it over.
Steve took it.
A young woman stared back at him.
Dark hair, a beautiful face, but she wasn't smiling.
"Who's she?"
Erskine looked at the photograph.
"Clara."
Steve waited.
Erskine's voice lowered.
"Frederick's first great success."
Steve looked back down at her.
"Success at what?"
Erskine didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached out and tapped the photograph.
"Making a human being more than human."
Erskine took the photograph from Steve's hands.
"Frederick called it Compound V."
"Compound V?"
A formula designed to alter the human body. To push it beyond nature's limits.
Erskine stared at her photograph.
"In the beginning, that was all it was. A possibility."
Berlin, Germany — 1938
Erskine watched Frederick Vought hold the vial up to the light.
A thin blue liquid moved inside it.
Three cages sat empty against the far wall. Erskine tried not to look.
Frederick had changed the formula again.
This time, he'd invited an audience.
Two German officers stood near the door, their uniforms immaculate against the laboratory's stained walls. One checked his watch.
"They're growing impatient," Erskine said.
Frederick continued studying the vial.
"Let them."
Frederick finally looked at him.
Erskine didn't like that.
Frederick turned the vial between his fingers.
"We're ready."
"No," Erskine said.
"The compound is unstable."
"The compound works.
"On animals."
Frederick lowered the vial.
"Then perhaps it is time we stopped testing it on animals."
Erskine's eyes moved toward the German officers.
One of them opened the laboratory door.
A woman entered.
Clara.
She showed none of the uncertainty Erskine expected from someone about to become Frederick's first successful test subject.
If anything, she looked impatient.
Frederick smiled when he saw her.
"She volunteered?" Steve asked.
Erskine's eyes remained fixed on the photograph.
"Yes."
Steve looked at him.
"You tried to stop them."
"I tried."
Erskine removed his glasses and slowly cleaned them against his coat.
"But Frederick had something I did not."
"What?"
"People willing to ignore the risks."
Erskine put his glasses back on.
"And a government willing to provide as many subjects as necessary until he succeeded."
"But Clara was different."
"How?"
"She survived."
Clara screamed.
Her back lifted from the examination table as every restraint around her body pulled tight.
Erskine ran toward her.
Clara's scream made Erskine reach for the controls.
"That's enough."
Frederick caught his arm before he could touch them.
"She's still conscious."
"Her heart is failing."
Erskine tried to pull away, but Frederick wouldn't let go. He was staring through the glass towards Clara—not with concern, but fascination.
"Give it another ten seconds."
"Ten seconds could kill her."
"Or change everything."
Erskine looked through the glass.
She had stopped screaming.
Clara's fingers bent around the metal railing next to her.
Even through the pain, Clara smiled.
Steve's eyes remained on Erskine.
Frederick couldn't wait to see what he'd made. By morning, Clara was already lifting tons.
Steve glanced at the photograph.
"How strong was she?"
"Strong enough to frighten the officers watching her."
That caught Steve's attention.
Erskine took another drink.
"So it worked."
"Yes."
There was no pride in Erskine's answer.
Steve noticed.
"But something went wrong."
Erskine looked at him.
"No."
That wasn't the answer Steve expected.
"Nothing went wrong."
Steve frowned.
"Then why did you leave?"
Erskine leaned forward.
"Because the compound did exactly what it was supposed to do."
Erskine tapped two fingers against his chest.
"It changed her body, Steve."
Then he tapped his temple.
"It did not change this."
Steve looked toward Clara's photograph.
The serum cannot create character. It cannot manufacture compassion. It cannot teach a man when to use his strength.
Erskine's expression turned dark.
"It only gives him more."
"More what?"
"More of himself."
Steve said nothing.
Erskine leaned back.
"Clara was strong before Frederick ever touched her."
Conviction. Pride. Ambition. Clara believed some people were born to stand above others.
Steve's face stiffened.
"And then you made her powerful enough to do it."
Erskine looked down.
"Yes."
For the first time, Steve saw something in the doctor's face he hadn't seen before.
Shame.
Erskine reached for the bottle.
"The compound amplifies what is already inside."
He poured another drink.
"A good man can become greater."
His eyes returned to Clara.
"But what is inside a bad man..."
Erskine trailed off.
Steve understood.
"Gets worse."
Erskine nodded.
"Much worse."
Steve stared at Clara's photograph.
Then a thought occurred to him.
He slowly looked down at his own thin arms.
Tomorrow they intended to put something similar inside him.
Steve looked back at Erskine.
"And you want to do that to me?"
Erskine met his eyes.
"Yes."
Steve gave a short, nervous laugh.
"After that story, Doc, you're not exactly selling it."
That finally brought a smile back to Erskine's face.
"No. I suppose I am not."
Steve's smile disappeared just as quickly.
"Then I'll ask again."
Erskine waited.
Steve looked directly at him.
"Why me?"
Erskine examined him for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
Not because the question amused him.
Because Steve still didn't know the answer.
"Do you remember the grenade?"
Steve's face changed.
"Yeah."
"Colonel Phillips threw it among twenty men."
Erskine leaned forward.
"Every man there believed it was live."
Steve remembered the shouting.
The sudden panic.
Men diving behind whatever cover they could find.
And himself hitting the ground.
On top of it.
"You didn't think," Erskine said.
Steve shrugged.
"There wasn't much time."
"Exactly."
Steve looked at him.
"You had no time to decide whether anyone watching would be impressed. No time to consider whether it would earn you this procedure."
Erskine tapped the photograph of Clara.
"You believed you were going to die."
Steve's eyes lowered.
"But you did it anyway."
Steve was quiet for a moment.
"Anybody could've done it."
"But nobody else did."
Steve couldn't argue with that.
Erskine leaned back in his chair.
"I have met strong men my entire life, Steven. Soldiers. Athletes. Men who have never known what it is like to walk into a room and immediately understand that almost everyone inside could overpower them."
A small smile appeared on Steve's face.
"Sounds nice."
Erskine chuckled.
"I imagine it does."
He became serious again.
"But there is something such men can easily forget."
Erskine reached across and lightly touched Steve's arm.
"The value of strength."
Steve looked down at the doctor's hand.
"A strong man who has known power all his life may begin to believe it belongs to him. That he earned it simply by possessing it."
Erskine glanced toward Clara's photograph.
"And eventually, believe that those without it matter less."
His eyes returned to Steve.
"But a weak man."
Steve's smile disappeared.
"Knows what it is like to be knocked down."
"You know what it is like to get back up."
Erskine paused.
Steve gave him a look.
"Bucky says that's because I'm stupid."
"Your friend may have a point."
Steve laughed.
Erskine smiled with him before continuing.
"But that isn't why I chose you."
He moved closer.
"You know what it feels like to be powerless, Steven. And because of that, when you see someone else who cannot defend themselves..."
Erskine tapped Steve's chest with one finger.
"...you cannot simply walk away."
Steve's smile faded.
For once, he had no quick answer.
"Tomorrow," Erskine continued, "if the procedure succeeds, you will never be the weakest man in the room again."
Steve looked down at himself.
That was difficult to imagine.
"No more men dragging you from alleys. No more doctors telling you that your body isn't good enough. No more standing behind while your friends go to fight a war you believe should be yours too."
Erskine's voice softened.
"You will finally have the strength you have wanted all your life."
Steve looked at him.
"And that is exactly why I need you to remember the man who wanted it."
Erskine tapped Steve's chest again.
"Whatever happens tomorrow, promise me you will stay who you are."
Erskine touched one finger to Steve's chest.
"Not a perfect soldier, but a good man."
"I'll try."
"No."
Steve looked at him.
"Promise me."
Steve hadn't expected the word to carry so much weight. Whatever fear Erskine had brought into the barracks with him, it wasn't only about whether tomorrow's procedure would work.
It was about what might happen if it did.
"I promise."
Erskine kept his hand against Steve's shoulder.
"And there is one more thing."
Steve waited.
Erskine glanced toward Clara's photograph lying between them.
"When Frederick looks at Clara, he sees proof that some people deserve to stand above others."
He turned back to Steve.
"I want you to remember the opposite."
Erskine spoke carefully, making sure Steve heard every word.
"With great power comes great responsibility."
Steve didn't answer immediately.
The words stayed between them.
Tomorrow he would be given something men were fighting wars to possess.
Something capable of turning an ordinary person into someone like Clara.
Steve looked at his hands.
Then back at Erskine.
"With great power comes great responsibility," he repeated quietly.
Erskine smiled.
"Exactly."
Steve lifted the empty glass Erskine had given him earlier.
"Then..."
He thought for a second.
"To the little guys."
Erskine's smile widened.
"To the little guys."
Their glasses touched.
Steve started bringing his toward his mouth.
Erskine suddenly grabbed his wrist.
"No."
Steve froze.
"What?"
"You have a procedure tomorrow. No fluids."
Steve stared at him.
"You're the one who poured it."
"Yes, well, nobody is perfect."
Steve laughed.
"We'll drink it after."
Erskine considered that.
Then he took Steve's glass and poured it into his own.
"I don't have procedure tomorrow."
Steve watched him take a drink.
"That's cold, Doc."
Erskine smiled over the rim of the glass.
"It is very good."
Steve shook his head.
"I'll take your word for it."
"I save you a little."
For the first time that night, Steve stopped thinking about tomorrow.
He sat there with Erskine and laughed.
Brooklyn, New York — June 22, 1943
The next morning, Agent Margaret Carter accompanied Steve to Brooklyn for the procedure.
Steve had gotten used to Peggy during his time at Camp Lehigh.
She'd seen him finish last on the runs, struggle over walls the other recruits cleared with ease, and get back up every time training put him on the ground.
Somehow, that made sitting beside her now more embarrassing than any of it.
Unlike most of them, she never treated Steve like he didn't belong.
He liked her for that.
Although if Steve were being completely truthful, that wasn't the only reason he liked her.
Now he sat beside her in the back of a black sedan, watching Brooklyn pass outside the window.
Steve knew these streets better than anywhere else.
He pointed through the glass.
"I got beat up in that alley."
Peggy followed his finger.
The car continued down the street.
Steve pointed again.
"And over there."
Peggy turned toward him.
"How often did you get into fights?"
"Quite often."
Peggy looked back through the window.
"Did you ever consider running away?"
"Sure."
That wasn't the answer she expected.
Steve noticed.
"I wasn't very good at that either."
A laugh escaped her.
Steve smiled.
"But if you start running from guys like that, they'll never let you stop."
"What did you do instead?"
"Got hit, mostly."
Peggy laughed. "An excellent strategy."
"Didn't say it was a good one."
The sedan passed another alley Steve recognized. He'd left that one with a split lip and Bucky's hand under his arm, hauling him home before his mother could see the blood.
"Running never really fixed anything anyway," Steve said. "You let somebody like that chase you off once, they'll expect you to run the next time."
Peggy glanced over. "So you kept getting back up."
"Pretty much."
"Even when you knew you'd lose?"
Steve thought about that.
"Especially then."
Steve turned toward her.
"I can't imagine anybody shutting a door on you."
"Plenty have."
"Why?"
Peggy gave him a look.
Steve realized the answer almost immediately.
"Oh."
"Yes. Oh."
He sank slightly into his seat.
"Sorry."
"Don't be."
Steve glanced at her uniform.
"I guess I never thought about it."
"Most men don't."
She wasn't angry when she said it. If anything, she sounded accustomed to the problem.
"There are plenty who don't believe a woman belongs in the Army. Fewer who enjoy taking orders from one."
Steve smiled.
"I bet that goes well."
"They learn."
"I believe that."
Peggy caught the smile on his face.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Steve."
He looked away.
Peggy waited.
Steve knew she wasn't going to let him escape the question.
"I was just thinking... I don't understand it."
"Understand what?"
"Somebody shutting a door on you."
"We've established that."
"No, I mean..."
He stopped.
This had sounded much better before he'd started saying it.
Peggy waited.
Steve rubbed his palms against his trousers.
"You're beautiful."
There was a brief silence.
Steve immediately wished he'd chosen different words.
Peggy, however, seemed amused.
"And beautiful women aren't told no?"
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean?"
"I don't know anymore."
That got a laugh out of her.
Steve shook his head.
"I just figured guys would be climbing over each other to hold doors open for you."
"Depends on the door I'm trying to get through."
Steve thought about that.
"Fair enough."
Peggy studied him for a moment.
"What about you?"
"What about me?"
"Is there anyone waiting for you?"
Steve shook his head.
"No."
"No one?"
"No one."
Peggy seemed surprised.
Steve pointed toward himself.
"Really?"
"What?"
"You've seen me."
"I have."
"Then why are you surprised?"
Peggy smiled.
Steve continued before he could embarrass himself any further.
"I'm short. You've seen how well that worked out for me at camp."
"Anything else?"
"I can't dance."
"You've never danced?"
"Once."
Peggy waited for the rest.
Steve sighed. "I was seven."
"Seven?"
"My mother let me stand on her feet while she danced around the kitchen."
That wasn't quite the answer Peggy had expected.
"I'd say that counts."
"I wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't think my mother would've appreciated me taking another girl dancing that way."
Peggy laughed.
"Fair point."
Steve found himself laughing with her.
"I don't know. Asking a girl to dance always seemed..."
He searched for the word.
"Terrifying?"
Steve looked at her.
"Yeah."
"You're volunteering to go to war."
"That's different."
"How?"
Steve thought about it.
"Nobody expects you to make conversation while somebody's shooting at you."
Peggy laughed again.
The nervousness Steve had felt since getting into the car was beginning to disappear.
"So you've never asked anyone?"
Steve's attention drifted back to Brooklyn passing outside the window.
"Thought about it."
"And?"
"There was always a reason not to."
Money had been one. His health another. Then the war came, and suddenly worrying about whether a girl might say yes didn't seem nearly as important.
Peggy watched him for a moment.
"What are you waiting for now?"
Steve didn't need long to answer.
"The right partner."
For once, Peggy didn't have an immediate response.
The sedan carried them farther through Brooklyn.
Steve didn't notice the small smile on her face.
France — 1944
"ROGERS!"
Steve turned.
A bullet struck his shield hard enough to snap his arm backward.
Another tore through the air beside his head.
"GET DOWN!"
Steve dropped behind what remained of a stone wall as gunfire ripped across the field. Pieces of rock scattered over his helmet.
He pressed his back against the wall.
His heart was pounding.
So this was war.
"Rogers!"
Steve looked to his left.
The soldier who'd shouted at him was crouched several yards away, waving him over.
"Move your ass!"
Steve looked between them.
Open ground.
Maybe twenty yards.
Before the serum, twenty yards under machine-gun fire would've sounded like a good way to die.
Now—
Steve ran.
His boots tore through the mud.
He reached the other side so quickly that the soldier barely had time to move before Steve crashed into cover beside him.
"What the hell was that?"
Steve caught his breath.
"What?"
"You trying to win the war by yourself?"
"I saw an opening."
"You saw an opening because the rest of us were still fifty yards behind you."
Steve glanced back.
Through the smoke, he could barely make out the other soldiers working their way toward them.
He'd done it again.
At Camp Lehigh, Steve had spent every run trying desperately to keep up.
Now everyone else had to keep up with him.
The soldier shoved another clip into his rifle.
"First time?"
Steve looked at him.
"Yeah."
"Thought so."
Another burst of gunfire struck the wall.
Steve ducked.
The soldier didn't.
Not until the rounds came closer.
Steve noticed that.
"You scared?"
Steve almost laughed.
He'd waited years for this. Lied on enlistment forms. Taken every rejection the Army could give him and come back asking again.
He'd imagined fighting Nazis more times than he could count.
He hadn't imagined his hands shaking.
"Yeah."
"Good."
Steve frowned.
"Good?"
"Means you're not an idiot."
The soldier leaned around the wall, fired twice, and dropped back.
"Name's Sullivan."
"Steve."
"I know who you are."
Right.
The uniform probably gave that away.
Sullivan looked at the shield strapped to Steve's arm.
Three fresh marks scarred its surface.
"What the hell is that thing?"
Steve looked down at it.
Howard Stark had handed it to him only days before deployment.
The engineer had worked alongside Erskine on Project Rebirth, though Steve had quickly learned that Howard was considerably more interested in what came after the impossible had already been accomplished.
Especially if he could build something for it.
"You're going to need something that can take as much punishment as you can."
Steve had expected a weapon.
Howard gave him a shield.
"Stark made it."
"Who's Stark?"
A bullet struck the top of the wall.
Both men ducked this time.
"The guy who told me it was bulletproof."
Sullivan looked at the marks.
"You believe him?"
Steve looked at the machine-gun position ahead.
"Guess we're finding out."
Before Sullivan could ask what he meant, Steve moved.
"Rogers!"
Steve raised the shield.
The machine gun opened fire.
The first impact traveled through his entire arm.
Then another.
And another.
Steve kept moving.
Rounds hammered against the shield as he crossed the field. Mud kicked up around his boots.
Every instinct told him to get down.
He didn't.
There were men behind him now.
That changed things.
Steve reached the German position and drove the edge of his shield into the first soldier's chest.
Too hard.
The man flew backward.
Steve froze.
Only for a second.
Another German came at him.
Steve caught the rifle before the barrel could turn toward him.
He pulled.
The weapon came free so easily that Steve nearly lost his balance.
The German stared at him.
Steve stared back.
Neither seemed prepared for what happened next.
Steve punched him.
The man's feet left the ground.
He landed several yards away and didn't move.
Steve looked at his fist.
"Oh."
Gunfire erupted behind him.
Steve dropped.
Sullivan and the others had finally reached the position.
"Thought we talked about this!"
Steve raised his shield as another round passed overhead.
"About what?"
"Waiting for the rest of us!"
A shot cracked against the stone beside Steve's head.
"Rogers!"
Steve ducked lower.
Sullivan fired twice over the wall before dropping beside him.
"What?"
Sullivan slapped the edge of Steve's shield.
"You planning on carrying that damn thing all the way to Berlin?"
Another burst of gunfire chewed into the wall.
Steve raised the shield over them. Bullets hammered against the metal hard enough for him to feel every impact through his arm.
Sullivan grinned.
"There you go. Now you're thinking."
"You could've mentioned that before they started shooting."
"Thought it'd be funnier this way."
Sullivan popped back up and fired.
Steve stared at the shield for half a second.
He'd been treating it like armor.
It could be more than that.
He stepped from cover.
"Where the hell are you going?"
Steve adjusted his grip.
"Trying something."
"That's usually when you get shot!"
Steve broke into a run.
The first few weeks taught him things Camp Lehigh never could.
Having the fastest legs in the unit didn't mean much if nobody was behind you when you reached the enemy.
Being strong enough to tear a door from its hinges didn't tell you what might be waiting on the other side.
And being bulletproof in exactly one circular area wasn't nearly as useful as Howard had made it sound.
The shield helped.
Steve still had to learn how to use it.
The first time he tried throwing it, he missed.
Badly.
Bucky stared at the shield lying halfway across the courtyard.
Then at Steve.
"You gonna get that?"
Steve looked at the Germans firing from the building ahead.
"Eventually."
"Good plan."
"I'd like to see you try it."
"I've got a gun."
Bucky fired.
A German disappeared from the window.
"See?"
Steve ran for the shield.
A month later, he didn't miss.
The shield left Steve's hand, struck one soldier across the chest, and bounced off the wall.
Steve caught it.
Bucky lowered his rifle.
"Show-off."
Steve caught the shield and kept walking.
Sullivan fell into step beside him. "You miss, I'm not fetching it."
"You were the one who told me to start throwing it."
"Yeah. I've made mistakes."
Steve wiped mud from the star with his sleeve.
The uniform underneath wasn't much cleaner. The blue had faded around the shoulders, one glove had been stitched twice, and there was a tear near his ribs that Peggy would probably have something to say about if she ever saw it.
Steve couldn't remember the last time he'd noticed any of that.
The first time he'd put the uniform on, he'd been painfully aware of every piece of it.
Now he only noticed when something got in the way.
So did the blood.
After enough time on the front, certain things became clear.
The distant whistle of artillery could wake Steve faster than any alarm.
Sleep came lighter than it used to. A rifle cracking somewhere beyond camp could open his eyes before the man beside him even stirred.
And the coffee was awful.
Steve drank it anyway.
Somehow, after a freezing night with mud in his boots and barely two hours of sleep, that burnt cup of whatever the Army called coffee could taste like the best thing he'd had all day.
He learned the names of the men around him.
Sullivan had a wife back in Pennsylvania who was going to kill him if the Germans didn't.
Miller's snoring became a running joke after Sullivan swore he'd slept through an artillery barrage that had sent everyone else scrambling from their tents. Henderson played cards whenever he could find three men foolish enough to sit across from him, and no matter how many times Bucky accused him of cheating, nobody ever managed to catch him doing it.
At night, conversations usually found their way home.
A wife waiting in Pennsylvania. A father's hardware store in Ohio. A girl somebody intended to marry as soon as the war was over.
Steve mostly listened.
It didn't take him long to notice that home came up more often before a battle.
Nobody admitted why.
They didn't have to.
Somewhere along the way, the men stopped treating Steve like the experiment the Army had dropped into their unit. They stopped asking what the serum could do and started giving him shit about everything else.
To them, he wasn't Captain America every hour of the day.
Sometimes he was just Rogers.
Steve.
The kid from Brooklyn who couldn't dance.
The idiot who'd gotten into more fights than he could count.
The man who could carry an injured soldier on each shoulder and still complain when somebody asked him to carry their pack.
"You're stronger than us."
"That's not the point."
"Sounds exactly like the point."
Steve shoved the bag back into Miller's hands. "Carry your own damn bag."
Miller nearly dropped it.
"Asshole."
"You're welcome."
By the end of the week, Miller was dead.
Steve found him beside what remained of a farmhouse, one hand still wrapped around his rifle. There wasn't time to stop. Someone farther ahead was calling for a medic, and Bucky was yelling for Steve to move.
So he moved.
That happened more than once.
There was a nineteen-year-old replacement who cried for his mother after shrapnel opened his stomach. Steve held pressure against the wound until the medic arrived, even after the kid stopped responding to him.
Another man survived the fighting only to die before sunrise because nobody had realized how badly he'd been bleeding.
Steve began learning the difference between being strong enough to save someone and being able to save them.
They weren't the same thing.
A medic telling Steve to keep pressure on a wound, even though there was nothing left to save.
The first letter Steve helped write because the man beside him could no longer hold the pencil.
The first time someone he'd eaten breakfast with didn't make it to dinner.
Steve stopped trying to remember every face.
Then hated himself for it.
War didn't give him much time to feel guilty.
There was always another road.
Another village.
Another order.
At first
"ROGERS!"
Usually meant Steve had done something wrong.
But eventually men started looking at him for an answer.
Steve wasn't sure when that happened.
There wasn't a ceremony.
Nobody told him he'd become the man they trusted to move first.
One day, Steve looked behind him before advancing and realized everyone was already waiting for him.
So he raised the shield.
"Move."
They followed.
By winter, Steve no longer needed to understand German to know when a soldier recognized him.
He'd seen the reaction enough times.
A rifleman once caught sight of the shield through the smoke and shouted something to the men beside him. Whatever he'd said, three rifles immediately swung away from the American soldiers they had been firing at and toward Steve.
Bullets hammered the shield.
"Well," Bucky shouted from somewhere behind him, "looks like you're popular."
Steve waited for the firing to break, then moved.
It kept happening after that. Sometimes the Germans tried to bring him down first. Other times Steve would come through the smoke and watch a man hesitate before firing.
That hesitation was new.
Steve understood what it meant.
They knew the shield.
Sometimes they ran.
Steve preferred when they ran.
He'd become good at killing.
That frightened him more than he admitted.
The first man he'd punched had shocked him.
Months later, Steve knew exactly how hard he needed to hit.
How much force would knock someone unconscious.
How much would break a bone.
How much would kill.
Erskine had given Steve strength. He'd spent the months since discovering what that strength could do—and, more importantly, what it couldn't.
The village had already been bombed when they arrived.
Steve walked between buildings with his shield hanging from one arm.
Smoke drifted through what remained of the street—a cart burned near a shattered storefront. Somewhere nearby, a church bell rang.
Sullivan walked beside him.
"Third one this week."
Steve didn't answer.
That was the worst part.
A year earlier, seeing something like this would've stopped him cold.
Now he kept walking.
Civilians emerged slowly after the soldiers.
An older man.
Two women.
A girl with blood dried along one side of her face.
Steve watched medics move toward them.
Then he heard it.
"Maman!"
Steve stopped.
Sullivan took another step before noticing.
"What?"
Steve held up a hand.
There.
Again.
"Maman!"
A child.
Steve turned toward a collapsed building.
"Steve?"
He was already moving.
The front of the house had folded into itself. Steve climbed over broken brick and splintered wood.
"Hello?"
Something moved beneath the wreckage.
Steve dropped to his knees.
"Hey!"
A woman's voice answered in French.
Steve understood almost none of it.
He followed the sound.
Then he saw them.
A woman lay beneath what remained of the ceiling, her body wrapped around a little boy. A broken timber had stopped the concrete above them from falling completely.
It wouldn't hold much longer.
The boy saw Steve.
"Monsieur!"
"I'm here."
Steve threw his shield aside.
He grabbed the edge of the concrete.
"Stay back."
The woman pulled her son closer.
Steve planted his feet.
He lifted.
Nothing happened.
Steve stopped.
He adjusted his grip.
Tried again.
The concrete shifted perhaps an inch.
Then slammed back down.
The boy screamed.
He grabbed the slab again.
"Come on!"
Steve drove upward with everything he had. For a second, the slab moved.
Then his boot slid across the rubble.
The weight came down with him.
"No—!"
He caught it before it could fall completely, his shoulder taking the impact. Pain shot down his back as concrete ground against concrete above his head.
The woman screamed and pulled her son closer.
"Get out!" Steve shouted.
"We can't!"
He tried again. Nothing.
That scared him.
Since the procedure, Steve had grown used to things moving when he pushed them. Doors broke. Men went down. Equipment that once would've taken three soldiers to carry could be lifted onto his shoulder.
But this wouldn't move.
His arms began to shake.
Somewhere beneath the concrete, the boy started crying again.
"Mama..."
Steve shut his eyes.
Not a perfect soldier...
Steve opened his eyes.
A good man.
His fingers tightened against the concrete.
Steve planted his boots.
"Get your boy ready."
The mother stared at him.
"When I lift this, you run."
"What about you?"
Steve looked up at several tons of concrete resting inches above his head.
"I'll figure that part out."
He pushed.
Pain shot through his arms.
"Steve!"
Sullivan was somewhere behind him.
"This whole place is coming down!"
"I know!"
Dust fell from above.
The boy had started crying.
"Mama..."
His mother whispered something and pressed his face against her chest.
He remembered being small.
Being sick.
Being afraid.
Being unable to do anything about it.
You know what it feels like to be powerless.
His hands found a better grip.
And because of that, when you see someone else who cannot defend themselves...
Steve got underneath the slab.
"Sullivan!"
"I'm here!"
"When I lift this, take the kid."
Sullivan looked at the concrete.
"Steve—"
"Take the kid."
Sullivan moved.
Steve breathed once.
Then pushed.
Every muscle in his body tightened.
The slab rose.
The woman stared at him.
"GO!"
Sullivan reached underneath.
The boy screamed as his mother pushed him toward the opening.
Sullivan grabbed him.
Steve's arms began to shake.
The concrete wanted to come down.
He wouldn't let it.
The woman started crawling.
A crack split through the ceiling above them.
"STEVE!"
With great power comes great responsibility.
Steve roared and lifted higher.
For several seconds, Sullivan couldn't see him.
Then a figure stumbled through the dust.
Steve dropped to one knee, coughing.
Sullivan still held the boy.
His mother took him and fell to the ground, wrapping both arms around her son.
Steve watched them.
The boy buried his face against her.
Alive.
That was enough.
Sullivan walked over.
"You all right?"
Steve looked at his hands.
They were bleeding.
He flexed his fingers.
"Yeah."
Sullivan looked at the collapsed building.
Then back at Steve.
"You're a terrible liar."
Steve laughed once.
The woman said something to him.
Steve looked at her.
She was crying.
He didn't understand the words.
He understood what they meant.
Steve gave her a small nod.
Then he picked his shield out of the rubble.
For most of his life, Steve Rogers had wanted to know what it felt like to be strong.
Erskine had made him strong.
The war was teaching him what that strength was for.
Sullivan was waiting outside.
"Everyone out?"
Steve nodded.
"Everyone."
Sullivan looked past him.
The woman held her son against her chest while the older man helped them away from what remained of their home.
For once, Sullivan had nothing smart to say.
Steve bent down and picked up his shield.
"We should catch up."
He started toward the road.
"Rogers."
Steve stopped.
Sullivan tossed him his helmet.
Steve caught it.
"You forgot something."
"Thanks."
Steve put it on and turned away.
"Captain."
He stopped again.
Sullivan had already started walking.
The others followed him.
Steve stood there for a second.
Nobody laughed.
Nobody corrected Sullivan.
One of the men glanced back.
"You coming, Captain?"
Steve looked down at the shield on his arm.
Then he followed.
Captain.