Camp Lehigh, Costume Design Department.
A gray-haired Military tailor was proudly displaying his work.
It was a bulky uniform made of bulletproof fiber and canvas sewn together.
The color was a dull Military green, and a crude star was spray-painted in white on the chest and back.
"Mr. Morris, for this 'Captain' uniform, we referenced the latest front-line..."
Lynn only took one look before expressionlessly slamming a stack of design drawings onto the table.
"Use mine."
He pulled out the top one.
On the drawing was a male figure wearing a blue and red tight-fitting combat suit.
The lines were fluid, and the muscle contours were perfectly outlined.
The white star on the chest and the red and white stripes on the abdomen were visually striking.
In his hand was an iconic circular shield.
"What we need is a symbol that can be printed on posters and make every child go crazy for it."
Lynn tapped his fingertips on the drawing.
"He is a walking flag."
The tailor and the Military liaison officer next to him looked at each other.
"But... Mr. Morris, this... this is too tight-fitting, has no protective capabilities, and on the battlefield... it's too conspicuous!"
"He doesn't need to go to the battlefield; his battlefield is here."
Lynn pointed out the window.
"In the hearts of the public, in every city on the home front."
Ultimately, under the strong insistence of Lynn, the 'Chief Planner,' and his depiction of the bright prospects for war bonds, this plan, which the Military considered unorthodox, was forcibly approved.
When Steve Rogers first put on this brand-new combat suit and stood before the full-length mirror, his handsome face flushed red.
The tight suit exposed his perfectly sculpted muscle lines, and the flashy red, white, and blue color scheme made him want to curl his toes in embarrassment.
"I... I can't wear this."
His voice was dry, full of resistance and shame.
The first rehearsal was, for Steve, practically a public execution.
The stage was set up as ruins destroyed by artillery fire.
A group of actors wearing low-quality Nazi uniforms were lunging at him, claws bared, according to the script.
According to Lynn's script, he needed to 'bend' a prop steel bar with his bare hands here.
And then use his shield to 'knock down' three enemies with an extremely flashy move.
Steve's movements were incredibly stiff.
He could punch through real steel plates, yet he felt unprecedented humiliation in bending a rubber stick painted with paint.
"Bang!" He threw the shield on the ground, interrupting the ongoing rehearsal.
"I can't do it!" He roared at Lynn, who was off to the side of the stage.
"This is ridiculous! This is an insult to every real soldier! It's an insult to this war!"
All the staff were silent as cicadas in winter.
Lynn waved his hand, signaling everyone to leave.
Soon, only he and Steve, whose chest was heaving violently as he stood in the center of the stage, were left in the large theater.
He didn't argue; he just walked onto the stage, picked up the shield from the ground, and handed it back to Steve.
"A wife on an Ohio farm who has just received her husband's death notice, what is she most afraid of?"
Steve was stunned.
"A worker in a Detroit munitions factory who works sixteen hours a day, what is he most worried about?"
Lynn didn't wait for him to answer and continued on his own.
"It is fear, it is doubt, it is the despair permeating the entire home front. They cannot see the hope of victory, only strings of casualty numbers in the newspapers."
He walked a circle around Steve.
"Do you think you are standing on a stage? No, this is the heart of the United States."
"Do you think you are fighting with actors? No, you are fighting against despair."
"Every time you throw a punch, you are shattering a family's fear; every time you raise your shield, you are providing shelter for a city's faith."
"The soldiers on the front lines are killing enemies with bullets, and you, Captain, your mission is to kill fear with hope."
Lynn stopped and looked directly into Steve's eyes, which were beginning to waver.
"Tell me, which enemy is more terrifying?"
He looked down at the shield in his hand, and then at the ridiculous combat suit on his body.
So... is that it?
He was not a Joker; he was an... embodiment of hope.
He gripped the shield tightly, the humiliation and anger in his eyes replaced by a sacred sense of mission.
Philadelphia, Captain America's first tour performance.
Under the propaganda offensive orchestrated by Lynn, slogans like 'The Brooklyn Miracle' and 'The Walking Miracle' spread across the city via newspapers and radio.
The area outside the theater was packed with people, and the atmosphere was extremely fanatical.
Lynn stood in the shadows on the side of the stage, calmly directing everything backstage through a headset.
"Lighting crew, spotlight number three, ready!"
"Sound effects team, 'Artillery Fire' sound effect, ready!"
"Narrator, put more emotion into it. Remember, you need to make everyone believe that a miracle is happening!"
The curtain rose.
Steve Rogers, Captain America, made his entrance.
He was no longer coy, his eyes full of the determination of someone entrusted with a sacred mission.
He fought the 'Nazis' according to the script.
Bending steel bars with his bare hands.
Using the shield to perform various flashy moves.
Under the meticulously arranged lighting, explosion sound effects, and highly inflammatory narration by Lynn, a play that was originally comical was performed as a soul-stirring war epic.
The audience watched, mesmerized.
What they saw was not a performance, but the miracle of a skinny kid from Brooklyn transforming into the guardian deity of the nation.
When Steve 'knocked down' the last Nazi actor with his shield and stood in the center of the stage, holding the shield high amidst the rousing music.
A pure white spotlight descended from the sky, enveloping him.
The giant Stars and Stripes flag behind him rippled and snapped even without wind.
At that moment, thousands of audience members below erupted into cheers like a mountain collapse and a tsunami!
"U-S-A! U-S-A!"
The shouting was enough to lift the roof.
Countless people were in tears.
The long-suppressed patriotic enthusiasm of the public was completely ignited!
After the performance, the war bond sales points outside the theater were packed solid by the frenzied crowd.
The next morning, the temporary command post of the Strategic Scientific Reserve.
A communications officer rushed in with a telegram.
"General! Everyone! Philadelphia... the war bond sales in Philadelphia last night... broke the record for the total of the past three months in Pennsylvania!"
In the conference room, a group of high-ranking Military officials with stars on their shoulders and government dignitaries in suits and leather shoes collectively lost their voices.
They looked at each other, their expressions shifting from shock to ecstasy.
They looked at the young man in the corner who was quietly drinking coffee as if looking at a living god of wealth!
"Good lad!"
Colonel Davis was the first to react. He slapped Lynn heavily on the shoulder, grinned widely, and laughed: "I take back what I said before! You aren't running a circus, you are F--King printing money!"
An official from the Department of the Treasury directly grasped Lynn's hand.
"Mr. Morris! A national tour! It must be a national tour! Budget is not an issue; whatever you need, we will approve!"
Lynn showed a humble smile.
"I am just fulfilling Dr. Erskine's dying wish."
The meeting ended.
Everyone left with satisfied smiles.
Lynn returned to his temporary office, picked up the phone on the desk, and dialed a number located in Switzerland.
The call connected, and a respectful and steady voice came from the other side.
"Sir."
Lynn looked at the financial report regarding the Philadelphia performance.
His gaze fell on an inconspicuous column at the very bottom—'Publicity and Event Expenses'.
He used a pen to add a '0' after that number.
"Use this amount as the first batch of publicity funds and transfer it to the seed account."
Lynn's tone was calm.
"Also, use ten percent of this money to start acquiring the scattered shares of Stark Industries circulating on the market. Remember, use different shell companies; don't attract anyone's attention."
"Understood, sir."
Hanging up the phone, Lynn tossed the report into the shredder.
The so-called 'expenses' were nothing more than kickbacks he had legally siphoned off from the total war bond sales under the name of 'Chief Planner'.
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