Me and Julius genuinely did not understand the American military's thought process.
We stood among generals, senators, donors, and smiling officials as Steve Rogers—Captain America, the greatest product of the Super Soldier Program—danced across a brightly lit stage in a star-spangled costume, singing about punching Hitler in the face.
I stared.
Julius stared.
Then we both quietly lost it.
Not laughing out loud—of course not—but the kind of internal disbelief that only comes from watching history actively misuse its greatest assets. Steve twirled, saluted, and flexed to thunderous applause. The crowd loved him. Children cheered. Adults threw money. Morale soared.
And yet all I could think was: This man could punch through tanks.
Julius leaned slightly toward me."Do they… do they think wars are won with tap dancing?"
"I think," I replied dryly, "they're afraid of letting him near the front lines. Symbols are safer than soldiers."
Steve finished his routine, struck a heroic pose, and waved as the curtain closed. The applause was deafening. Somewhere, an accountant was very pleased.
Then Howard Stark walked onto the stage.
Now this—this was interesting.
Howard Stark had the grin of a man who fully expected reality to cooperate with him out of sheer confidence. He launched straight into his presentation, rolling out what he proudly announced as the future of transportation: a flying car.
The crowd leaned in.
The engine roared.
The car lifted.
For approximately three seconds, it was glorious.
Then gravity remembered it existed.
The car dipped, sputtered, and fell—crashing back onto the stage in a spectacular failure of sparks, smoke, and wounded pride. The audience booed. Loudly. Relentlessly.
Howard Stark, to his credit, bowed.
Me and Julius clapped.
Quietly. Appreciatively.
"Brilliant mind," Julius said, watching Howard argue animatedly with stagehands while being ushered off. "Trapped in the wrong century."
I nodded. My eyes traced Howard's movements—not with magic, not with power, but with analysis. The man's mind burned hot. Designs layered atop designs. Half-finished breakthroughs waiting on materials that did not yet exist. He was pushing against the ceiling of his era with bare hands.
"He's dangerous," I said. "Not intentionally. But give him access to anomalies without supervision, and he'll try to build a god in a garage."
Julius smirked. "And succeed halfway."
The O5 Council had discussed Howard Stark more than once. Genius-level intellect. Unshakable confidence. Zero restraint. A personality that made containment… complicated. Recruiting him would accelerate Foundation technology by decades. Letting him remain independent meant hoping he never stumbled across something he shouldn't.
Which, knowing Howard Stark, was optimistic at best.
"He's not ready," Julius said at last. "And neither is the world."
I watched Steve reappear backstage, costume half-off, shoulders slumped—not from shame, but from confusion. He wanted to fight. They wanted him to perform.
Howard wanted to build the future. They wanted him to entertain the present.
America was winning the war with symbols.
The Foundation, as always, was preparing for what came after.
"Let them have their show," I said quietly. "History needs its illusions."
Julius raised his glass."And we'll handle reality."
Somewhere behind the curtain, two legends wondered why the world didn't know what to do with them.
And above it all, unseen and unacknowledged, we watched—already planning how to reshape the aftermath.