CAMP LEHIGH - COLONEL PHILLIPS' OFFICE, AFTERNOON
Steve stood at rigid attention outside Colonel Phillips' office, trying not to fidget despite the nervous energy coursing through him. The summons had come unexpectedly during afternoon tactical training—a stern-faced sergeant interrupting Lieutenant Scott's lecture to inform Steve that his presence was required immediately.
Now, waiting in the hallway, Steve couldn't help but wonder if this meant the end of his brief military career. Perhaps Phillips had finally decided that no amount of tactical brilliance could compensate for his physical shortcomings.
"They're ready for you, Rogers," the colonel's aide announced, opening the door.
Steve straightened his uniform one last time, took a deep breath, and stepped inside. To his surprise, the office contained not just Colonel Phillips, but also Dr. Erskine, Agent Carter, and Lieutenant Scott. They sat around a conference table covered with manila folders—one of which, Steve noted with a mixture of hope and trepidation, had his name visible on the tab.
"Private Rogers, reporting as ordered, sir," Steve said, saluting sharply.
Phillips returned the salute with perfunctory efficiency. "At ease, Rogers. Take a seat."
Steve sat in the remaining chair, back straight, hands resting on his knees. The silence stretched for several seconds as Phillips leafed through what appeared to be Steve's file, his expression unreadable.
"Rogers," Phillips finally began, "do you know why you're here?"
"No, sir."
Phillips exchanged glances with Erskine before continuing. "For the past week, we've been evaluating all recruits in your cohort for a special project." He tapped the stack of folders. "Project Rebirth is a classified program of the highest priority—one that could potentially alter the course of this war."
Steve's pulse quickened, but he maintained his composure. "I understand, sir."
"No, you don't," Phillips replied bluntly. "Not yet. But you will." He leaned back in his chair, studying Steve with a gaze that seemed to seek something beyond the physical. "After extensive evaluation and against my better judgment, you've been selected as our primary candidate."
The words hung in the air for a moment as Steve processed them. Selected? Him?
"Sir, I—"
Phillips raised a hand, cutting him off. "I didn't ask for commentary, Private. Dr. Erskine will explain the scientific aspects. All you need to know now is that tomorrow morning, you'll undergo a procedure designed to... enhance your physical capabilities."
Dr. Erskine leaned forward, his kind eyes meeting Steve's. "What the colonel means, Mr. Rogers, is that we believe we have developed a method to unlock the full potential of the human body. If successful, you will emerge with significantly improved strength, speed, and endurance."
"In other words," Phillips added dryly, "we're going to make you a proper soldier, if such a thing is possible."
Steve glanced from Phillips to Erskine, then to Agent Carter, whose expression remained carefully neutral, though he thought he detected a hint of approval in her eyes. Lieutenant Scott sat silently, watching the exchange with thoughtful attention.
"May I ask why I was chosen, sir?" Steve ventured.
Phillips snorted. "That's what I'd like to know."
"If I may, Colonel," Erskine interjected gently. "Rogers, your selection was based on more than physical parameters. In fact, those were secondary considerations." He adjusted his glasses. "We have been observing not just what you can do, but who you are. Your actions during training—particularly your response to the grenade test—demonstrated qualities essential for our purposes."
"Jumping on a dummy grenade doesn't make a super soldier," Phillips muttered.
"No," Erskine agreed, "but it reveals character. And character, Colonel, is what this program truly requires." He turned back to Steve. "The procedure is not without risk. I cannot guarantee success, nor can I promise there won't be... complications."
Steve straightened in his chair. "I understand, sir. I'm willing to take that risk."
"Of course you are," Phillips sighed, closing the folder with a snap. "Tomorrow at 0600, Agent Carter will escort you to the facility. Until then, you're confined to barracks. This is a classified operation—no discussion with other personnel, understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Phillips stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Dismissed, Rogers. Try not to die before tomorrow."
As Steve rose to leave, Lieutenant Scott spoke for the first time. "One moment, Rogers." He produced a slim volume from his briefcase. "Some reading material for tonight. Might help settle the nerves."
Steve accepted the book—a collection of tactical analyses from the Great War—with a grateful nod. "Thank you, sir."
"Good luck tomorrow," Scott said quietly. "Remember, true strength comes from within."
Outside the office, Steve paused to collect his thoughts. From within the room, he could hear Phillips's voice: "I still say Hodge would be the safer bet. Rogers could collapse just from the stress before we even begin the procedure."
"And yet," came Erskine's calm reply, "he is the one who threw himself on a grenade to save his fellow soldiers. Would Hodge have done the same?"
Steve moved away, not wanting to eavesdrop further. As he walked back toward the barracks, the full weight of what had just happened began to settle on his shoulders. Tomorrow could change everything—for him, for the war effort, perhaps for the world.
If he survived.
The barracks was unusually quiet when Steve returned. Most of the recruits were still at afternoon training, giving him rare solitude to process the news. He sat on his bunk, Lieutenant Scott's book unopened beside him, staring at the wall as he considered what lay ahead.
The door swung open, and Peter burst in, slightly out of breath. "There you are! When you got pulled from class, I thought—" He stopped, noting Steve's expression. "What happened? Are you being sent home?"
"Not exactly," Steve replied, gesturing for Peter to keep his voice down. "They've selected me for something called Project Rebirth. Some kind of... enhancement procedure."
Peter's eyes widened. "That's what this has all been about? They're going to—what? Make you stronger?"
"Something like that. I'm not supposed to discuss it." Steve glanced around, ensuring they were still alone. "What about you? Have they said anything...?"
"No," Peter shook his head. "But Jay mentioned hearing rumors about a special project. He thought they might be considering some of us for it." He sat beside Steve. "So tomorrow...?"
"0600. Agent Carter's taking me to the facility." Steve ran a hand through his hair. "Honestly, I'm still trying to wrap my head around it."
"Steve Rogers, scientific marvel," Peter grinned, nudging his friend's shoulder. "Somehow it fits."
Before they could continue, the barracks door opened again as the other recruits began returning from training. Their conversation quickly turned to mundane matters, though Steve caught Peter watching him with a mixture of concern and pride throughout the evening.
Word spread quickly that Steve had been chosen for something special. While the details remained classified, the fact that he'd been pulled from training and confined to barracks sparked speculation. By dinner, the atmosphere had shifted noticeably.
"So, Rogers," one of the recruits—Williams, a tall Midwesterner—approached as they ate. "Heard you're shipping out tomorrow for some special assignment."
Steve shrugged noncommittally. "Can't really talk about it."
"Must be important if they're calling you up," another recruit added with surprising respect. "Whatever it is, good luck."
Even more surprising were the handshakes and pats on the back from recruits who had barely acknowledged him days earlier. Only Hodge remained aloof, glowering from the far end of the table.
"What's the matter, Hodge?" Williams called out. "Jealous they picked Rogers instead of you?"
Hodge stabbed at his food. "They're scraping the bottom of the barrel if they're taking Rogers. Probably need someone expendable for whatever crazy scheme they've cooked up."
"Funny," Peter interjected, "I thought they'd want someone with an actual brain for a special assignment, not just muscles."
Several recruits laughed, and Hodge's face darkened further. He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Laugh it up. We'll see who's still standing when this war is over." He stormed out, the door slamming behind him.
"Don't let him get to you," Williams told Steve. "He's just sore because he's been kissing Phillips' boots since day one, and you got the golden ticket."
As the evening progressed, Steve found himself the unexpected center of attention. Recruits who had previously ignored him or joined in Hodge's mockery now sought his company, asking questions he couldn't answer about his mysterious assignment or sharing stories from their own lives before the war.
Jay Garrick stopped by briefly, giving Steve a knowing smile. "Heard the news. Can't say I'm surprised—you've impressed a lot of people around here." He lowered his voice. "Whatever happens tomorrow, just remember: what matters isn't the strength of your body, but the strength of your character."
By lights out, Steve felt a curious mixture of anxiety and calm. As the other recruits settled into their bunks, the reality of what awaited him at dawn kept sleep at bay. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing through possibilities and scenarios.
He was still awake an hour later when the barracks door quietly opened and Dr. Erskine slipped inside, carrying a bottle.
Dr. Erskine paused in the doorway, spotting Steve on his bunk—the only recruit still awake in the otherwise empty barracks. The doctor held up his bottle of schnapps with a questioning gesture.
"May I?" he asked softly.
Steve sat up, nodding. "Yeah."
Erskine approached, settling into a chair beside Steve's bunk. The doctor looked tired but oddly at peace, as though satisfied with the culmination of long labor.
"Can't sleep?" Erskine asked.
"I got the jitters, I guess," Steve admitted.
Erskine held up the bottle with a sympathetic smile. "Me, too."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, two men on the eve of something momentous. Steve studied the doctor's face, searching for reassurance or doubt, but finding only calm determination.
"Can I ask you a question?" Steve finally ventured.
"Just one?" Erskine replied with gentle humor.
Steve took a breath. "Why me?"
The doctor regarded him thoughtfully, as though this was both the expected question and the one that mattered most. "I suppose that is the only question that matters." He held up his bottle, turning it so Steve could see the label. "This is from Augsburg. My city. So many people forget that the first country the Nazis invaded was their own."
The comment caught Steve off guard. Erskine continued, his voice taking on a reflective quality. "You know, after the last war, my people struggled. They felt weak. They felt small. And then Hitler comes along with the marching and the big show and the flags. And he hears of me, my work. And he finds me. And he says, 'You.' He says, 'You will make us strong.'"
Erskine's eyes grew distant. "Well, I am not interested. So, he sends the head of HYDRA, his research division. A brilliant scientist by the name of Johann Schmidt."
Steve listened intently as Erskine described Schmidt—a member of Hitler's inner circle, ambitious and obsessed with occult power and Teutonic myth. "Hitler uses his fantasies to inspire his followers," Erskine explained. "But for Schmidt, it is not fantasy. For him, it is real. He has become convinced that there is a great power hidden in the earth, left here by the gods, waiting to be seized by a superior man."
The doctor's expression darkened. "So when he hears about my formula and what it can do, he cannot resist. Schmidt must become that superior man."
Steve leaned forward. "Did it make him stronger?"
"Yes," Erskine acknowledged with a troubled nod. "But there were other... effects. The serum was not ready. But more important, the man." He tapped his chest for emphasis. "The serum amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great. Bad becomes worse."
Understanding dawned on Steve's face as Erskine continued, his voice softening. "This is why you were chosen. Because a strong man who has known power all his life may lose respect for that power, but a weak man knows the value of strength. And knows compassion."
The words settled over Steve like a mantle—both burden and honor. "Thanks," he said after a moment. "...I think."
Erskine chuckled, the tension broken. Steve reached for two water glasses as the doctor began pouring the schnapps.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," Erskine said, his tone suddenly earnest, "you must promise me one thing. That you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man."
Steve felt the weight of those words—the faith Erskine was placing in him, not just for tomorrow's procedure but for whatever came after. He raised his glass. "To the little guys."
Erskine's eyes widened suddenly. "No, no. Wait, wait. What am I doing? No, you have procedure tomorrow. No fluids."
"All right," Steve conceded, disappointed but understanding. "We'll drink it after."
The doctor took Steve's glass, pouring its contents into his own. "No, I don't have procedure tomorrow," he said with a mischievous gleam. "Drink it after? I drink it now." He swallowed the combined drinks in one go, letting out a satisfied sigh.
Steve couldn't help but smile at the doctor's small rebellion. In that moment, Erskine was more than just a brilliant scientist or military asset—he was simply a man sharing a drink with a friend on the eve of something momentous.
They talked for a while longer—not about the procedure or the war, but about music (Erskine confessed a fondness for jazz), literature, and the small pleasures that remained even in dark times. It was almost possible to forget, in those quiet hours, what awaited them at dawn.
When Erskine finally rose to leave, he placed a gentle hand on Steve's shoulder. "Get what rest you can," he advised. "Tomorrow will be... intense."
"Thank you," Steve said, the words encompassing more than just the visit. "For everything."
Erskine smiled, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Remember your promise, Steven Rogers. Not a perfect soldier. A good man."
After the doctor left, Steve lay back on his bunk, staring at the ceiling. Around him, the other recruits slept soundly, unaware of the momentous change about to occur. In a few hours, he would either emerge transformed or not emerge at all.
Despite the uncertainty, a strange calm had settled over him. Whatever happened tomorrow, he knew who he was and what he stood for. Not a perfect soldier, perhaps. But he would always strive to be a good man.
Outside the barracks window, stars wheeled silently in the night sky. Somewhere across the Atlantic, men were fighting and dying in a war that had already consumed millions. Tomorrow, Steve Rogers would take his place among them—either as he was or as something new.
For now, in the quiet darkness, he closed his eyes and finally found sleep.
—
CAMP LEHIGH - BARRACKS, DAWN
Steve woke to soft footsteps approaching his bunk. Opening his eyes, he found Agent Carter standing over him, immaculate in her uniform despite the early hour.
"Time to go, Private Rogers," she said quietly.
The barracks was still dark, the other recruits asleep. Steve dressed quickly and in silence, gathering nothing—he'd been instructed to bring only himself. As he prepared to leave, a hand caught his arm. Peter, awake and solemn.
"Good luck," he whispered, the words inadequate for the moment but all that could be said.
Steve nodded, clasping his friend's hand briefly. "Thanks."
Outside, a car waited to take them to whatever fate Project Rebirth held. As Steve slid into the back seat, he glanced at Agent Carter.
"Nervous?" she asked, her voice neutral but not unkind.
"A little," Steve admitted. Then, with quiet determination: "But ready."
The car pulled away from Camp Lehigh and into the breaking dawn, carrying Steven Rogers toward his destiny.
—
HYDRA HQ - DAY
The overture from Wagner's "Das Rheingold" filled the stone chamber with its ominous grandeur, the sweeping orchestration echoing off the rock walls. Through a massive bay window carved into the mountain face, afternoon light spilled across an artist's easel positioned in the center of the room.
Outside, storm clouds gathered over the mountains, casting dramatic shadows across the landscape. The contrast between the civilized refinement of classical music within and the harsh wilderness without mirrored the duality of HYDRA itself—an organization that cloaked barbaric ambition in scientific rationality.
A hesitant knock barely penetrated the swelling music.
Inside the chamber, the artist's hand trembled slightly as he mixed various shades of red on his palette, his eyes darting nervously between his canvas and his subject, who remained partially obscured in shadow. The phonograph in the corner continued spinning Wagner's masterpiece, undisturbed by the interruption.
The knock came again, more insistent this time.
"Sir?" Dr. Zola's voice called through the door.
When no answer came, the door opened slowly, and Dr. Zola stepped cautiously inside. He froze immediately, transfixed by something beyond our view.
"Don't stare, Doctor," Schmidt's voice commanded from across the room, a note of amusement in his tone. "Is it something in particular?"
Zola composed himself with visible effort. "I understand you've found him."
"See for yourself."
Zola approached a large oak table positioned near the window. Spread across its polished surface were surveillance photographs: Erskine stepping from a New York taxi; Erskine purchasing a hot dog from a street vendor; Erskine being escorted by military police through a nondescript doorway. The images captured a man who believed himself safe but was, in reality, already within HYDRA's grasp.
"You disapprove," Schmidt observed, still standing in silhouette against the window.
Zola adjusted his glasses nervously. "I just don't see why you need concern yourself. I can't imagine he will succeed." He hesitated before adding pointedly: "Again."
"His serum is the Allies' only defense against this power we now possess," Schmidt replied, gesturing toward the laboratory where the Tesseract's energy now powered HYDRA's new arsenal. "If we take it away from them, then our victory is assured."
Zola considered this, his scientific mind acknowledging the strategic logic while still harboring reservations. "Shall I give the order?"
"It has been given."
A flicker of surprise crossed Zola's face at being bypassed in the command chain, quickly masked by professional deference. "Good."
He turned to leave, but Schmidt's voice stopped him at the door.
"Dr. Zola! What do you think?"
Schmidt stepped forward, finally allowing the light to fall across his face. The artist flinched visibly as Schmidt moved into view, his expression one of barely controlled terror. Zola glanced at the canvas, where the portrait was taking shape—a study in crimson and shadow that captured both the man Schmidt had been and what he had become.
"A masterpiece," Zola pronounced, his tone carefully neutral despite the grotesque reality before him.
The face that looked back at him was no longer human in any conventional sense. Where once had been the handsome features of an Aryan ideal now stretched a crimson skull, the skin stripped away to reveal a nightmare visage of red muscle tissue stretched taut over bone. Only the eyes remained recognizable—the same piercing blue that had once charmed diplomats and intimidated subordinates, now burning with even greater intensity from their skeletal sockets.
This was the price Schmidt had paid for his impatience, for seizing power before Erskine's formula was perfected. Not just enhanced strength and intelligence, but transformation into something beyond human—a living embodiment of the very death he sought to deal to his enemies.
"You may go," Schmidt dismissed Zola, turning back to the trembling artist. "Continue."
As Zola slipped from the room, he glimpsed Schmidt adjusting his collar, preparing to return to shadow for the remainder of the sitting. The last thing Zola saw before closing the door was the artist's hand shaking so violently he could barely hold his brush.
—
SCHMIDT'S PRIVATE CHAMBERS - NIGHT
Hours later, with the surveillance photographs of Erskine carefully arranged on a stone altar flanked by ceremonial daggers, Schmidt prepared for communion. The portrait session had concluded, the unfortunate artist having been escorted to quarters that would ensure his silence regarding what he had witnessed.
Now, in the privacy of his inner sanctum—a chamber few within HYDRA even knew existed—Schmidt stood before an ancient symbol etched into the stone floor. The room contained no modern technology, no hint of the scientific revolution HYDRA pursued. Instead, ancient tomes lined the walls, and artifacts of forgotten civilizations occupied niches carved into the rock.
Schmidt lit black candles positioned at precise intervals around the symbol, their flames casting dancing shadows across walls adorned with diagrams of cosmic convergences and mythological narratives. He removed his uniform jacket and boots, standing barefoot on the cold stone in his shirtsleeves. From a wooden box, he withdrew a vial of dark liquid—blood, though not his own—and poured it into a shallow depression at the center of the etched symbol.
"I know you're watching," Schmidt spoke into the seemingly empty chamber. "Always watching, always waiting. I have news that will interest you both."
The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen, taking on substance and dimension beyond normal darkness. From one such pool of blackness, a voice emerged—smooth and cultured, yet carrying an undercurrent of ice that suggested infinite malice beneath its civilized veneer.
"News, or merely progress on tasks already assigned?" the voice inquired. "Your mortal concept of 'news' often disappoints, Schmidt."
The air in the chamber grew noticeably colder. From another shadow, a second presence made itself known—this one radiating not cold but heat, the atmosphere around it shimmering like air above desert sand.
"Let us hear what the skull-faced one has to say," this second voice rumbled, its tone reminiscent of metal grinding against stone. "His ambition, at least, remains entertaining."
Schmidt betrayed no fear at these manifestations, though any ordinary man would have fled screaming from the chamber. Instead, he smiled—an unsettling sight on his red, lipless face.
"Erskine has been located," he announced. "The Americans are hiding him in New York, preparing to implement his formula—the very formula that gave me this." He gestured to his transformed visage. "My agents are already in position. By this time tomorrow, the good doctor will be eliminated, and his research destroyed."
The first shadow coalesced further, almost taking human form—tall and elegant in what appeared to be an immaculate suit, though its features remained obscured. This was Mephisto, ancient dealer in souls and architect of suffering, whose realm adjoined Hell itself.
"Erskine's death serves our purposes well enough," Mephisto conceded. "But what of his formula? Destruction seems... wasteful."
"The Americans have only one viable test subject," Schmidt explained. "Eliminate Erskine before the procedure, and there will be no super soldiers to oppose HYDRA's forces."
"And no rivals to your own enhanced state," observed the second entity—Ares, God of War, his presence suggesting armor and weapons though his form remained indistinct. "How convenient for your personal ambitions."
Schmidt inclined his head, acknowledging the observation without apology. "My ambitions align with our shared goals. Is that not why we formed this alliance?"
Mephisto's shadow moved around the chamber like liquid darkness. "Our alliance has its uses, for now. But let us speak of greater matters." His voice lowered to a near whisper. "The vacancy remains unfilled. The politics of Hell grow tedious in Lucifer's absence."
"The Morningstar abandoned his throne," Ares commented with evident disdain. "Walked away from power absolute for... what? To wander among mortals? Incomprehensible."
"Yet it creates opportunity," Mephisto continued smoothly. "The Triumvirate squabbles amongst themselves—Azazel, Beelzebub, and Belial lack vision beyond their petty rivalries. They maintain an uneasy balance while more ambitious entities position themselves for true power."
Schmidt listened with calculated interest. The supernatural politics might seem remote from HYDRA's earthly conquest, but he understood the value of powerful allies—particularly those who could bestow gifts beyond mortal science.
"And how does our arrangement advance your claim to the throne?" he inquired.
Mephisto's form seemed to smile, though without visible features, the impression came more from a shift in the darkness than any observable expression. "Souls, Herr Schmidt. Power in the infernal realms is measured in souls harvested. This war of yours—it has already generated millions. But with the Tesseract's power harnessed to your weapons..."
"Billions," Schmidt finished. "Unprecedented harvest."
"Precisely." Mephisto's shadow stretched across the wall. "The Tesseract allows for weapons of such devastating power that entire cities could be wiped out in an instant. Each death feeds my power, strengthens my position against rival claimants."
Ares moved restlessly, the heat of his presence causing the candle flames to bend toward him as though acknowledging a greater fire. "Death alone is not enough," he growled. "It is conflict that matters—the clash of armies, the testing of will against will. The suffering of warriors who know they fight and die for nothing but the ambitions of their leaders."
"And you shall have it," Schmidt assured him. "HYDRA's new weapons will not end war—they will elevate it. Nations will bow before our power, yes, but resistance will continue. Partisans, freedom fighters, insurgents... the conflict will evolve but never truly end."
The God of War's presence expanded slightly, a gesture that might have been approval. "I have waited long for this moment. Since Olympus fell silent, I have sustained myself on human conflicts—border skirmishes, colonial wars, the occasional global conflagration. But with truly apocalyptic weapons in play..."
"You will feast as never before," Schmidt completed the thought. "And grow strong enough to claim dominion not just over war, but over all divine domains."
"Zeus sleeps," Ares said, his voice dropping to a contemplative rumble. "Along with all who opposed me. Only Hades remains, hidden in his underworld realm—no threat to my ambitions. When I have absorbed enough power from this conflict, I will ascend to Omnipotence City itself and challenge even the Skyfather."
Schmidt concealed his thoughts behind a mask of compliance. These entities spoke of using him, of course, just as he spoke of serving their interests. But he had plans beyond being anyone's instrument—even entities as powerful as these. The Tesseract was teaching him secrets daily, revealing glimpses of cosmic understanding that suggested paths to power even Mephisto and Ares might not comprehend.
"And what of your reward, skull-face?" Mephisto inquired, as though reading his thoughts. "You have served our purposes well thus far. Perhaps a demonstration of our gratitude is in order."
Schmidt's eyes gleamed with carefully controlled avarice. "I seek only what was promised—ascension beyond human limitation. Godhood."
Mephisto's shadow rippled with what might have been amusement. "Godhood is earned, not gifted. But immortality... that we can provide as a down payment on our arrangement."
Without warning, Mephisto's shadow engulfed Schmidt. The HYDRA leader stiffened as icy tendrils penetrated his transformed flesh, weaving through muscle and bone, altering the very nature of his cellular structure. The pain was exquisite, transcendent—like dying and being reborn simultaneously.
When Mephisto's shadow receded, Schmidt gasped, falling to his knees on the stone floor. His red hands clutched at his chest, feeling the changes within. His heart still beat, his lungs still drew breath, but something fundamental had shifted. He felt... untethered from mortality, as though time itself had lost its grip on him.
"It is done," Mephisto announced. "Your body will not age. Wounds will heal. Disease cannot touch you. Only true destruction—obliteration beyond recovery—could end your existence now."
Schmidt rose slowly, experiencing his transformed body with newfound wonder. "And when our work is complete? When HYDRA has conquered and the Tesseract's power has reshaped the world?"
"Then," Ares promised, his heat intensifying, "you shall have your place among the divine. Not as an equal, perhaps, but as one ascended beyond human limitation."
The unspoken implication hung between them:ifSchmidt fulfilled his part of the bargain,ifhe did not attempt to claim too much power for himself,ifhe remained a useful instrument in their cosmic game. All three participants in this unholy alliance harbored their private treacheries, their hidden ambitions beyond what was openly discussed.
"The hour grows late," Mephisto observed, his form beginning to dissipate. "Your assassin should be moving into position. We shall observe the outcome with interest."
"Eliminate Erskine," Ares commanded as his presence likewise began to fade. "Ensure no true rival to your power emerges. Then unleash the Tesseract's full potential upon the world."
As they departed, the temperature in the chamber slowly normalized. The candles flickered, some extinguished by the supernatural energies that had permeated the space. Schmidt stood alone once more, touching his face—the face that had become both his curse and his salvation.
Tomorrow, Erskine would die. The formula would be lost. And Johann Schmidt, now immortal, would take another step toward the ultimate power he craved.
He smiled, a grotesque stretching of muscle over bone. Let Mephisto harvest his souls. Let Ares feast on conflict. In the end, with the Tesseract's power fully mastered, Schmidt would answer to no one—not to Hitler, not to gods, not even to the conceptual forces Mephisto and Ares represented.
He would become something new entirely. Something beyond.
—
NEW YORK CITY - NIGHT
As Schmidt contemplated his ascension, across the Atlantic, a small Brooklyn apartment came alive with activity. An unmarked car pulled up to the curb, and two military police officers escorted Dr. Abraham Erskine inside, their vigilant eyes scanning the street for threats.
Erskine settled at his modest desk, spreading out notes coded in his personal shorthand—the final calculations for tomorrow's procedure. The last elements of Project Rebirth were falling into place. By this time tomorrow, Steven Rogers would either emerge transformed or...
The scientist pushed the darker possibility from his mind. The formula was ready. The subject was perfect. Success was not merely possible but probable.
What Erskine couldn't know—what no one in the Strategic Scientific Reserve had detected—was the figure watching from a rooftop across the street. A HYDRA operative, patient and methodical, making final preparations for the next day's assassination. Through his scope, he observed Erskine working late into the night, unaware that his hours were numbered.
In the shadows of the world, forces beyond human understanding were moving into alignment. Gods and demons placed their bets on the outcome of mortal conflicts. And for now, all paths seemed to lead toward HYDRA's victory.
But fate had other plans—plans that hinged on a skinny kid from Brooklyn who was, at that very moment, spending his last night as an ordinary man.