The barracks smelled of oil, metal, and the faint sting of bleach. Wooden floors creaked under boots and the hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated every so often by the bark of an officer somewhere down the corridor. Steve Rogers sat on the edge of a narrow bunk, his knees drawn together, fingers wringing like a man preparing to face trial. His eyes darted to the paper clutched in his hands—the enlistment forms already smudged with sweat.
"You're shaking the bed, pal," Bucky Barnes said with a crooked grin. He leaned against the wall, arms folded across his broad chest. Even in the dim lamplight his posture carried the ease of a man who knew he belonged in this place.
Steve looked up. "Buck… what if they don't take me?"
Bucky arched a brow, amused but not unkind. "Then we'll find the next place and try again. You've got more stubbornness in you than any army I know."
Steve exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "That's just it. I can try a thousand times, but my body…" He hesitated, words sticking like glass in his throat. "I've had doctors tell me since I was a kid that I wouldn't make it to thirty. Asthma, heart murmurs, the scarlet fever—hell, I'm a walking medical file. They'll see me and laugh me out the door."
Bucky crouched in front of him, his voice dropping low. "They'll see a man who wants it more than anyone else in the room. And if they can't? Then screw 'em. You'll find another way."
Steve chuckled, hollow and tired. "Another way, huh? Maybe I'll start lifting crates on the docks. Or… maybe I'll start a show. A strongman act. 'Come see the amazing Rogers! He may look like a twig, but he'll surprise you!'"
Bucky laughed, but there was sympathy in his eyes. "Don't joke about that, Steve. You've got… something in you. Those powers of yours—gravity or whatever you call it—they're not nothing. Maybe you don't flaunt them because you're afraid folks won't understand, but… if the Army won't take you, people will still need someone like you."
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. "What kind of man hides behind tricks? If I can't serve openly, what's the point?"
Bucky leaned closer. "The point is you are something more, whether you like it or not. And if the worst comes to pass—if they don't let you fight—you'll still find a way to stand in front of the fire. That's who you are."
Steve gave a wan smile, the weight of years pressing on his frail frame. "I just want the chance, Buck. That's all. Just the chance."
The moment lingered, heavy but honest, until the sharp call of a bugle echoed outside. Both men straightened. Time.
The enlistment hall buzzed like a hive. Lines of young men shuffled forward beneath banners declaring "For Freedom, For Honor, For America." Posters showed heroic soldiers, and—newly printed—an image of a metal-bodied figure soaring through the sky: the so-called "Flying Man," America's technological marvel. The newspapers had already dubbed him the "Iron Avenger," a machine said to symbolize the future of warfare. Steve's eyes lingered on the poster, unsettled.
"They say he's half-man, half-machine," Bucky muttered as they waited their turn. "Built to terrify the Axis. Can you imagine? A soldier who never tires, never bleeds."
Steve frowned." Did he even volunteer for all of this or they are treating this man as just another weapon?"
Bucky clapped his shoulder."Probably is said that his father and creator are working side by side with the government to be most effective as possible and even the possibility of making more".
Their names were called. Bucky went first. He strode forward with confidence, shirt stripped away under the stark glare of hanging lamps. The examining officer's clipboard filled quickly: height—183 centimeters. Weight—82 kilograms. Chest broad, lungs clear, heart steady.
"Barnes, James Buchanan," the officer barked. "Fit for duty. You'll report for training in one month. 107th Infantry Regiment."
Bucky's grin stretched wide. He threw Steve a quick wink.
Then Steve's name was called.
He swallowed and stepped forward. The light felt harsher now. He removed his shirt, pale skin stretched tight across narrow bones, ribs visible as though the flesh itself resented being there.
The doctor glanced at his file, brows furrowing almost instantly. "Rogers, Steven Grant. Height—160 centimeters. Weight—41 kilograms." His pen tapped against the paper. "Asthma… scoliosis… heart arrhythmia. Multiple prior hospitalizations. Family history of—" He stopped and looked Steve in the eye.
"Son," the doctor said flatly, "if I sent you to the front, I'd be signing your death certificate with my own hand. You wouldn't last a week. And I'd lose my post for negligence."
Steve's lips parted, but no words came. His heart thundered in his ears.
"I'm sorry," the doctor finished, and with a sharp motion, stamped his file: Rejected.
The sound of the stamp echoed louder than gunfire.
Steve forced a smile as he stepped away, his legs trembling. He clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "Congratulations, soldier," he said, his voice thin but steady.
Bucky's jaw tightened. He wanted to protest, to demand a second chance for his friend, but Steve's eyes begged him not to. This was Steve's battle, and losing it with dignity was all he could cling to.
Far away, under the California night, another battle began.
The roar of engines broke the silence of the Pacific as a darkened plane streaked low over the waves. Inside, a pilot adjusted his goggles, voice firm over the comm. "Target ahead. Remember the orders—straight for their armaments, light them up, no survivors unless they surrender."
Across from him stood a man—no, not a man, but a figure clad in red, flames licking at his skin though the metal hull did not scorch. The Human Torch. His eyes glowed like coals in the dark.
"You know the plan," the pilot continued grimly. "You're the spearhead. We follow your fire."
The Torch said nothing. He simply stepped to the open hatch as the wind screamed through the fuselage. Then, without hesitation, he leapt.
Flames erupted as he cut through the night, a blazing comet descending upon the Japanese outpost nestled along the coast. The soldiers below shouted in panic, scrambling for their weapons as fire rained from the heavens.
Artillery cannons burst like kindling. Ammunition depots ignited, exploding in chains of thunder. Wooden barracks collapsed under searing torrents of flame.
But the defenders rallied. Searchlights pierced the dark, catching the Torch's burning silhouette. Anti-aircraft guns thundered, shells ripping the sky. Worse still, streaks of unnatural green light arced upward—gifts from German allies, weapons whispered to slice through flesh and bone like razors of light.
The Torch wove through them, heat shimmering as he unleashed blasts that melted steel. Yet amid the chaos, his sensors caught something strange: a breath. A rhythm unlike any human's.
Then it came.
A figure vaulted from the shadows—a soldier, yet impossibly fast, muscles coiling with inhuman strength. The Torch barely dodged as the man's strike cracked the air like a cannon.
For the first time, the Torch faltered. He kept distance, unleashing flames from above. The soldier moved with martial precision, eyes gleaming feral under the firelight. When he lunged again, the Torch twisted aside and struck with all his fury, engulfing the man in a storm of white-hot flame.
Silence followed. The figure lay still, nothing but charred ruin.
The Torch hovered, chest heaving though he did not breathe. Victory—or so it seemed.
Then he felt it. A sting in his shoulder. A small kunai, impossibly lodged between the plates of his armor. He pulled it free, flames hissing around the steel. On its blade were words etched in Japanese script:
Beware the flames, little bird. They will be your undoing.
The Torch stared at it, unblinking. Then, without a word, he turned back toward the depot. Fire roared anew as he obliterated the last of the munitions before retreating skyward, the knife clutched tight in his molten grip.
Above the smoke, he whispered one name—"Horton"—and flew east to deliver the warning.
By dawn, the Pacific coast lay quiet again. But in New York, Steve Rogers sat alone with his rejection paper crumpled in his fist, while across the ocean, flames whispered of enemies yet unseen.
The war was coming for all of them. And the world would never again be the same.