New York City, June 1943
Dozens of half-dressed recruits sit in a room, nervously reading newspapers, waiting for their exam results.
Muscular frames and confident postures. Men are engaged in hushed conversation, flexing their muscles or sharing stories of their physical prowess.
The headlines of the papers reflect the grim realities of the war: "U-Boats Torpedo Ship Off Coast of Virginia." and "Nazis Burn Czech Village to the Ground."
Henry Kaminsky, a young recruit, tosses his newspaper aside and glances at the next person reading.
"Kinda makes you think twice about enlisting, huh?" he remarks.
Steve Rogers, sitting nearby, lowers his paper. His frail and thin frame contrasts sharply with the others around him.
" Nope," Steve replies firmly.
An army doctor's voice cuts through the murmur of the room. "Rogers, Steven."
Steve folds his paper and rises to his feet. He approaches the doctor, who is methodically scanning a file.
A close-up of Steve's file shows a list of ailments, each meticulously checked off.
The doctor glances up over his glasses. "What did your father die of?"
Steve swallows. "Mustard gas. He was in the 107th infantry. I was hoping to get assigned to them if—"
"And your mother?" the doctor interrupts.
Steve's face falls. "She worked in the TB ward. Got hit, couldn't shake it."
The doctor's expression softens momentarily, but his face hardens as he exhales slowly. He shakes his head.
"Sorry, son."
Steve leaned forward, desperation in his voice."Just give me a chance."
The doctor sighs, adjusting his glasses. "Even if I wanted to, you'll be ineligible on your asthma alone."
Steve's shoulders slump. "Is there anything you can do?"
"I'm doing it," the doctor says firmly. "I'm saving your life."
With a swift motion, he stamps Steve's file: "4F."
In a movie theater, the screen displays a newsreel. The footage transitions from a swastika fluttering on a flag to a disciplined column of Nazi soldiers marching in unison down a road.
The newsreel announcer's voice fills the theater: "War continues to ravage Europe… but help is on the way!"
Steve sat with the audience, watching intently. The announcer continues, "Every able-bodied young man is lining up to serve his country." The screen shows a line of men walking out of a recruiting office.
A loud voice from a few rows ahead interrupts: "Who cares? Play the movie already!"
Steve whispered, "Hey, show some respect ."
Steve glances across the aisle and notices a young woman with tears welling in her eyes, clearly worried about someone overseas. Opposite her, a middle-aged Jewish couple looks somber.
The announcer's voice returns: "Overseas, our brave boys are already showing the Axis that the price of freedom is never too high!" The screen shows soldiers, some wounded, waving at the camera with almost convincing smiles.
The same loud voice calls and interrupts again: "Jeez, just start the cartoon."
Steve sees the young woman flinch and leans over, fuming. He whispers to the man, "You want to shut up?"
The man slowly rises from his seat, revealing a giant jerk.
Outside the theater, in an alleyway late in the afternoon. The jerk hammers Steve in the jaw, sending him crashing into a line of garbage cans. Steve groans but gets back up.
Steve bobs and weaves, landing a kidney punch that barely affects the jerk. The jerk, unfazed, counters with a brutal swing. Steve tries to block it with a trash can lid.
The jerk snarles, yanking the lid away. A powerful blow lifts Steve off the ground. Steve hits the cement hard. For a moment, the jerk loomed over Steve. He panted and sneered triumphantly.
But Steve's resolve is unshaken. He grimaces in pain, but determination flickers in his eyes. With a deep breath, he forces himself to his feet, his movements slow but steady.
Steve stands tall once more, facing the jerk with unwavering resolve.
The jerk shakes his head. "You just don't know when to give up, do you?"
Steve wipes his bloody mouth, his gaze fixed and fierce. "I can do this all day."
The jerk knocks Steve into a pile of garbage. As he moves to hit Steve again, someone grabs his arm. James "Bucky" Barnes, a soldier, steps in. "Hey! Pick on someone your own size!"
The jerk swings at Bucky, but Bucky lands a solid punch, spins him around, and kicks him in the rear. The jerk runs off, and Bucky turns to Steve, who rises from the garbage.
"Sometimes I think you like getting punched."
"I had him on the ropes," Steve replied.
As Steve stands, a folded enlistment form falls from his pocket. Bucky picks it up and reads it. "How many times is this? And you're from Paramus now? It's still illegal to lie on an enlistment form, and seriously, Jersey?"
Steve frowns and glances at Bucky's uniform. "Looks like you got your orders."
Bucky nods. "The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes. Shipping out for England first thing tomorrow. Tonight is my last night."
Steve asks, "So, what's the first stop? Church?"
Bucky grins. "Yeah… maybe the second stop."
Bucky held out a crumpled newspaper, which Steve took with a curious glance.
"Where are we going?" Steve asked, his voice tinged with intrigue.
Bucky's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. "The future," he replied cryptically.
Steve unfolded the newspaper, revealing an ad for the "World Exhibition of Tomorrow." The vibrant image showcased sleek monorails racing through towering, futuristic buildings.
Steve and Bucky step into the bustling World Exhibition, surrounded by bright lights, towering pavilions, and the hum of excitement. People mill about, eyes wide with wonder as they take in the grandeur of technological marvels and displays of strength.
Steve's gaze falls on a recruitment booth. Bucky grins, nudging Steve. "This is something, huh?"
Steve forces a smile, but his eyes linger on the recruitment booth. "Yeah… it's amazing," he mutters, his voice lacking conviction.
Bucky, oblivious to Steve's inner turmoil, tugs him toward another exhibit. "Come on, Steve, let's check this out!"
Steve glances back at the recruitment line. Men are stepping up, taking their oaths, getting measured, fitted—and accepted.
Steve dreams of being more than what his body allows him, someone who can stand on the front lines, fight for something bigger than himself.
As he watches, the ache in his chest grows deeper. He fears he'll never stand shoulder to shoulder with men like them—healthy, able, the very picture of what a soldier should be. His asthma, his frailty, and the endless list all seem to stretch the distance between him and his dream. For every oath taken, Steve feels more like an outsider, someone destined to stay behind while others fight the battles he desperately wishes to be part of.
At that moment, the dream felt out of his reach.
The world around him grows grander, but all Steve feels is the weight of his inadequacy.
Under the night sky, the fairground buzzed with energy. Monorails zoomed above, their lights weaving a neon tapestry against the dark. Steve and Bucky strolled down the busy midway, their senses overwhelmed by the spectacle before them.
"This place is incredible," Steve marveled, his eyes scanning the high-tech attractions and futuristic designs.
Bucky grinned, clearly pleased with Steve's reaction. "Welcome to the future."
Bucky and Steve stroll past various booths.
The laughter and cheers of the crowd seem distant, drowned out by the roar of doubt in his mind.
Bucky says, "I don't see what the problem is. You're about to be the last eligible man in New York. You know there's three and a half million women here?"
"I'd settle for just one," Steve replied.
Bucky waves at someone in the distance. "Good thing I've taken care of that."
Across the fair, two girls, Connie and Bonnie, wave back from a booth.
"What'd you tell her about me?" Steve asked.
Bucky grins. "Only the good stuff."
Bucky rushes toward the two girls, and they immediately shower him with attention, leaving Steve to tag along a few steps behind, barely being noticed.
Being overlooked stung, but he brushed it off. He had more pressing concerns than the fleeting attention of a couple of girls.
"Oh my God, there he is!" The girls squealed, their excitement palpable as they urged Bucky toward the Marvel Pavilion's Stark Stage.
Inside, the scene was electric. A large crowd had gathered around the stage, where a banner read, "Stark Industries Presents…" Steve, on the periphery, bought a bag of peanuts while Bucky and the girls jostled for a better view. On stage, Howard Stark stood next to a sleek 1942 Cadillac.
Howard Stark flashed a charming smile and addressed the crowd. "Ladies, you know how challenging it can be putting on makeup in a car bouncing like a kangaroo on a trampoline."
The girls giggled, clearly enamored. Steve offered Bonnie a peanut. She looked at them with disgust. "No thanks."
"What if I told you that in just a few short years, your automobile won't even have to touch the ground at all." Stark continued, pressing a button. The Cadillac's tires retracted, and bulky devices emerged in their place. The car floated several inches above the stage, and the crowd gasped in awe. Bucky and Steve exchanged impressed glances.
"Holy cow," Bucky murmured.
Howard Stark proudly announced, "With Stark rubidic reversion technology"—he paused for dramatic effect—" You'll be able to do just that."
Suddenly, there was a loud pop, followed by an explosion. The Cadillac crashed back onto the stage with a thud. Stark quickly recovered, grinning sheepishly. "I did say a few years, didn't I?"
The audience erupted into applause, amused by Stark's mishap. Bonnie swooned over Howard Stark. Steve scanned the crowd, feeling slightly out of place. Bucky, meanwhile, wrapped his arm around Connie, sharing in the excitement.
"Hey, Steve. What do you say we treat these ladies-"
But Steve is already walking away. In his place, a little girl digs eagerly into his bag of peanuts.
A burly man stands in front of the mirror at the recruitment pavilion. He looks big and heroic in uniform. Steve steps up. In the mirror, he now wears a G.I. uniform. His disappointed eyes barely see over the collar.
Steve's thoughts drifted back to the cold stares and dismissive doctors. Each rejection hurt his spirit, but he kept going. He didn't want Bucky to see how much it hurt, but it was always there, simmering beneath the surface. Just then, Bucky claps a hand on his shoulder, breaking his thoughts.
"You're missing the point of a 'double date.' Come on, we're taking the girls dancing."
Steve glances at Bucky. "You go ahead. I'll catch up."
Bucky's face tightens. "You're gonna do this again?"
Steve shrugs. "Well, its a fair. I'm going to try my luck."
Bucky's voice drops. "As who? 'Steve from Ohio'? They'll catch you. Or worse, they'll take you."
Steve gives him a grim smile. "You don't think I can do it."
"This isn't some back alley, Steve." Bucky looks him in the eye. "It's a war. Why are you so keen to fight? There are lots of other important jobs-"
Steve cuts him off. "Like what? You want me to sit in a factory? Collect scrap metal in my little red wagon? Men are laying down their lives. I have no right to do any less." His voice lowers, steady but intense. "That's what you don't understand, Bucky. It's not about me."
Bucky holds his gaze, his voice softening. "Right. 'Cause you've got nothing to prove."
A tense silence hangs between them.
Connie calls out from a distance. "Hey, Sarge! Are we going dancing?"
Bucky replies, "Yeah. We are."
Annoyed, Bucky walks toward Connie. Then he stops, torn. He turns back to Steve and holds out his hand. Steve sees his friend's genuine concern and shakes his hand.
"Promise me you won't do anything too stupid until I'm back."
Steve cracks a smile. "How can I? Taking all the stupid with you."
Bucky chuckles. "You're a punk."
Steve grins back. "You're a jerk."
With a final wave, Bucky goes off with Connie and Bonnie.
Nearby, a tired-looking man in his mid-50s listens in on the argument.
Steve made his way to the recruitment booth, his steps resolute. As he approached the booth, the sounds of the fair faded into the background.
The lights overhead flickered slightly, casting shadows across the room of the enlistment center. Steve Rogers sat on the examination table, his thin frame nearly swallowed by the oversized medical gown. The young doctor silently removed the blood pressure cuff from Steve's arm, his movements mechanical, barely looking up as he spoke.
"You can get dressed."
Before Steve could respond, a nurse entered, her whispers drawing the doctor's attention.
They exchanged a glance, and the doctor's expression hardened as he looked back at Steve with a look that sent a chill down his spine.
"Wait here."
Steve's stomach knotted. "Am I in trouble?"
The doctor didn't answer, simply repeating, "Just wait here," before disappearing with the nurse, leaving Steve alone.
The room felt suffocatingly small as Steve's eyes darted nervously around the room. Finally landing, on a bold poster: "IT IS ILLEGAL TO FALSIFY YOUR ENLISTMENT FORM. ONLY TRAITORS LIE TO THEIR COUNTRY."
His breath hitched. He scrambled to his shoes, and instantly, curtains snapped. A military policeman stood there, towering and imposing. Steve's heart sank.
"I'm in trouble, aren't I?" he muttered.
Before the MP could respond, another figure stepped into the room. The man wore a lab coat, a file in hand, and a curious, almost amused expression on his lips.
"So," the man said in a thick German accent, "you want to go overseas and kill some Nazis?"
Steve froze, caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. "Excuse me?"
The man extended a hand, his smile faint but friendly. "I'm Doctor Abraham Erskine. I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
Steve shook his hand cautiously. "Steve Rogers. Where are you from?"
"Queens. 73rd and Utopia Parkway," Erskine replied, his smile growing slightly. "And before that, Germany. Does that bother you?"
Steve hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "No."
Erskine flipped through Steve's file, his sharp gaze never leaving him. "And where are you from, Mr. Rogers? Is it New Haven? Paramus?" He tapped the papers. "Five exams. Five different cities."
Steve's heart raced. "That might not be the right file-"
"It's not the exams I'm interested in. It's the five tries." Erskine leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as if trying to read Steve's soul. "You didn't answer my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?"
Steve took a breath, steadying himself. "Is this a test?"
"Yes."
Steve looked down, gathering his thoughts before speaking. When he finally did, his voice was calm but firm. "I don't want to kill anyone."
He lifted his gaze, looking Erskine straight in the eye.
"I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from."
Erskine studied him for a long moment, his expression softening as approval glimmered in his eyes. "There are already plenty of big, strong men in this war. Perhaps what we need now is a little guy, yes?"
Steve glanced at his frail frame, doubt flickering for a moment, before nodding slowly. "Maybe." He said cautiously. "What do you do, exactly?"
Erskine leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if revealing a secret. "Let's just say I believe every human has great potential. It's just a matter of bringing it to the surface."
He laid Steve's file on the table, reaching for a large stamp. Steve watched intently, sensing that this moment held far more weight than any physical exam.
"I can offer you a chance," Erskine said calmly. "Only a chance."
Steve's heart raced, but his voice remained steady. "I'll take it. That's all I'm asking for."
For a long moment, the doctor held his gaze, then with a decisive motion, he stamped the file with a bold "1A." And slid it across the desk toward Steve.
"Good, so where is the little guy really from?"Erskine asked with a soft smile.
His gaze sharpened as he looked at Steve with a newfound interest.
Steve's eyes met Erskine's, his voice steady yet filled with resolve. "Brooklyn."
The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment. Erskine's expression softened as he smiled warmly. "Congratulations, soldier."
Steve's eyes brightened as a genuine smile spread across his face.