2011 arrived with a quiet tension Alex could feel in his bones.
He was sixteen now—taller, leaner, voice settled into something deeper—but the world still saw a high-school junior from Queens. The interface had become an extension of his thoughts, always running background scans, always calculating risks. His cumulative enhancements sat at a comfortable plateau: IQ effective ~195, physical resilience +1.7σ, combat reflexes +1.2σ (from that security guard years ago), and a growing suite of minor talents that made everyday life effortless.
But he was still human. Fragile. Breakable. The news of Captain America's discovery in the Arctic hit like a thunderclap.
SHIELD had kept it quiet at first—classified recovery op, cryogenic preservation confirmed—but leaks spread fast in the post-WikiLeaks era. By late April, grainy photos circulated on conspiracy forums: a red-white-and-blue shield being airlifted from ice, a body bag too small to be anything else. Then the official announcement: Steve Rogers, found alive. Awakening imminent.
Alex knew what came next. The exhibit. The Smithsonian's new Captain America wing, opening to the public with replicas, artifacts, and—crucially—a touring display case that would rotate through major cities before settling in D.C. New York was first stop: the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, summer 2011.
He planned for months.
The exhibit opened on a humid July weekend. Alex bought tickets online with money from his latest game sale—"Hero Echo," a puzzle-platformer where you absorbed enemy patterns to progress. It had pulled in $18,000 over six months, enough for him to quietly upgrade the family apartment with better insulation and a new AC unit Elena thought was a "lucky rebate."
He went alone. Elena had a double shift; he told her it was a school project. Tommy and Sofia wanted to come, but he gently deflected—"Too crowded, guys. Next time."
The museum was packed. Families, tourists, history buffs. Alex moved through the crowds like water, eyes scanning for opportunities. The centerpiece was the shield display: the original vibranium-alloy disc behind reinforced glass, flanked by mannequins in period uniforms and a single interactive kiosk where visitors could "touch" a replica via a haptic glove.
He waited until late afternoon, when security thinned and crowds thinned with the heat. A maintenance worker—late forties, buzz cut, military bearing—approached the case to adjust lighting. The man wore nitrile gloves, but when he removed one to wipe sweat from his brow, a single glove was left on the cart.
Alex drifted closer, pretending to study a photo of the Howling Commandos. As the worker turned away, Alex brushed past the cart, fingers grazing the discarded glove. A faint trace of skin cells clung to the fabric.
He slipped into a restroom stall, heart steady despite the adrenaline.
*[DNA Sample: Trace from artifact handling glove. Primary contributor – Steven Grant Rogers (post-serum). Analysis: Super Soldier Serum (Erskine formula) – Full suite detected. Traits: Peak human strength (+3.4σ), Enhanced speed & agility (+3.1σ), Accelerated healing & metabolism (+4.2σ), Heightened reflexes & spatial awareness (+3.0σ), Immunological supremacy, Minor longevity markers. Risks: Overload potential high if full suite copied; serum incompatibility with non-enhanced baseline possible.]*
*[Selective Copy Recommendations: Strength +1.4σ (safe partial), Healing & Metabolism +1.6σ (high priority for longevity/family transfer), Reflexes +1.0σ. Defer full serum integration until further physical maturity and testing. Copy?]*
Alex closed his eyes. *Yes. Healing first. Then strength. Reflexes last.*
The transfer was different this time—deeper, warmer, like sunlight spreading through muscle and bone. His skin tingled. A cut on his thumb from yesterday's drone tinkering sealed in seconds. He flexed his hand; the scar tissue softened, faded.
Strength came next. He felt it settle in his core—subtle, not explosive. He could still pass for normal, but lifting his backpack one-handed felt effortless now. Reflexes sharpened the edges of his vision; he caught a flickering fluorescent bulb before it fully stuttered.
He tested discreetly on the walk home: a jog across three blocks in under thirty seconds without breaking a sweat. A push-up set that went past one hundred before he stopped, not from fatigue but boredom.
That night he hugged Elena longer than usual. The healing trait transferred fractionally—enough that the faint ache in her lower back from years of hospital shifts eased. She sighed against his shoulder. "You give the best hugs, mijo."
He smiled into her hair. *Just wait.*
The changes accumulated quietly over weeks. Bruises vanished overnight. Colds never fully took hold. His workouts—done in secret on the apartment rooftop—yielded visible muscle definition without bulk. He looked athletic, not superhuman. Perfect camouflage.
Money kept flowing. KaneTech was no longer a placeholder. He'd incorporated it quietly through an online service (using a PO box and Elena's name as registered agent for legitimacy). First product: civilian search-and-rescue drones with basic AI pathing—sold to volunteer fire departments and small NGOs. Revenue: $47,000 in the first quarter of 2011. He funneled most into blue-chip stocks and Stark Industries dips (post-weapons pivot uncertainty still lingered).
But the real shift was internal.
With healing and metabolism boosted, he felt *time* differently. Every day stretched a little longer. Fatigue receded faster. He slept six hours and woke sharp. Longevity projections updated:
*[Projected personal lifespan extension: +22–28 years (cumulative). Familial transfer viability: Excellent.]*
He started subtle experiments: cooking meals laced with micronutrients optimized for serum-like recovery (nothing illegal, just clever supplementation). Elena's energy climbed. She ran her first half-marathon that fall.
Friends noticed too. Tommy joked, "Dude, you're turning into Captain America or something." Alex laughed it off. "Just hitting the gym."
Vigilantism began small.
A mugging in Astoria—three guys cornering a woman at night. Alex intervened. Not flashy. He moved fast enough to disarm one, strong enough to pin another without breaking bones, reflexes sharp enough to dodge a wild swing. The third ran. The woman escaped unharmed. Alex vanished before sirens arrived.
No mask. No name. Just a shadow who helped and disappeared.
He didn't do it for glory. He did it because the streets were his home, and home needed protecting. Civilian casualties in the coming years—Chitauri invasion, Ultron, Thanos—were already burned into his memory. Every life he saved now was one less he'd have to mourn later.
The interface pinged one night as he lay in bed:
*[New Milestone: Super Soldier Serum partial integration complete. Cumulative physical enhancements now exceed peak baseline human in multiple vectors.]*
*[Warning: Attracting attention risk elevated. Maintain low profile.]*
Alex stared at the ceiling, shield emblem flickering in his mind's eye.
Steve Rogers was awake somewhere, probably disoriented, probably grieving a world seventy years gone.
Alex Kane was already moving forward.
And the board was about to get a lot bigger.
(Word count: 1012)