The cobblestones rang with Jan's hurried steps as he fled into the darkness, heart pounding like a war drum. Behind him, Erik crouched low, the sharp edges of fear in his breath as he carefully placed a crude Molotov cocktail upon the stone. Yet fate, cruel as ever, chose that moment to betray him. The bottle toppled, glass kissing stone with a clink far too loud to ignore.
A terrible sound rose in the distance—an ominous, mechanical clanking that grew louder, heavier, until the very earth seemed to groan beneath its weight.
Then, with a roar of splintering masonry and shattering stone, the beast came.
A monstrous war machine, unlike any ever seen by mortal eyes, thundered through the ruin of a building. It was the Landkreuzer, a metal leviathan of war, its armored hide emblazoned with the dread sigil of HYDRA.
Erik froze, color draining from his face as he beheld the symbol of doom. Then he turned, too slow—machine gun fire cut through the air, and his body fell in a twisted, lifeless heap.
---
The storm of death behind him, Jan reached the base of the stone tower—lonely and weather-worn atop the cliff of Castle Rock. He crashed through its doors and drew shut the heavy timber beam, bracing it with all the strength desperation could lend.
"They're coming!" he shouted.
From the depths of the tower emerged an old man, cloaked in robes and time itself. His eyes gleamed not with fear, but with the fire of guardianship.
"They shall not find it," the Keeper said with cold certainty.
But already the clanking had reached them. The Landkreuzer tore through the very wall, a juggernaut of metal fury. Stone and timber exploded inward. Jan was thrown like a leaf in a storm, his body broken amidst the wreckage.
The Keeper stirred, dazed, rising only to find Jan still and silent.
Dark shapes moved through the smoke—HYDRA soldiers, grim and resolute. They surrounded the old man like wolves circling a lone stag.
---
Outside, beneath the cloak of night, a cruel automobile pulled up. Its ornament was a skull, twisted and grinning, the emblem of HYDRA. Polished boots stepped upon the cobblestones with ominous grace.
Inside the sundered tower, the soldiers forced the Keeper before a great stone sarcophagus, carved with ancient runes in a forgotten tongue. They struggled against the coffin's immense lid, but it would not budge.
"Hurry," hissed a lieutenant, fear creeping into his voice, "before he—"
But footsteps cut through the air like a blade.
They turned at once, standing straighter as a figure emerged from the shadows. Pale of skin, sunken of eye, his presence chilled the room. This was Johann Schmidt, HYDRA's chosen—and its curse.
"It took me long to find this place," he said softly. "You should be commended."
He approached the Keeper, his voice silk over steel. "Give me what I want, and the Reich will be generous."
"I give you nothing," the old man spat.
A soldier stepped forward, hand raised—but Schmidt stayed him with a glance.
"You are a man of vision," Schmidt said, eyes narrowing. "In that, we are alike."
"I am nothing like you."
"No," Schmidt murmured. "I do not suggest you are. But where others see myth, we see the oldest form of science."
The Keeper's voice was hoarse with defiance. "What you seek is only legend."
"Then why do you guard it so?"
Without further word, Schmidt approached the sarcophagus. With a mighty heave, he cast the lid aside. It struck the floor with a deafening crash.
Inside, upon the bones of a forgotten warrior, rested a crystal cube—glowing faintly, pulsing with secrets older than time.
"The Tree of the World..." Schmidt whispered. He turned to the Keeper. "You've never seen it, have you?"
"It is not for mortal eyes," the old man said, trembling.
"Precisely."
He closed the box, smothering its light. His gaze wandered to a great cannon stationed nearby.
"Commence firing," he said, almost idly.
"No!" cried the Keeper, straining against the hands that held him. "Fool! You cannot control that power—you will burn!"
Schmidt's gaze darkened. "I already have."
A flash—swift and cold. His pistol roared once. The Keeper fell, lifeless. Blood marred the officer's lapel pin. The black insignia of HYDRA now glistened red. A fitting omen.
---
New York City, June 1943.
Alexander Rogers, elder brother of Steve Roger aka future captain America.
Alexander Rogers stood beside his little brother, silent, watching the flicker of humiliation cross Steve's gaunt face. Outside the enlistment center, the American flag rippled overhead—bold, proud, everything Steve wanted to be, yet couldn't touch.
The rejection letter crumpled in Steve's hands like a broken dream. Again.
Flashback
Few moments before
Newspapers screamed in silence: "Elite Nazi Forces Overrun Norwegian Town."
In a sparse office, young men stood half-dressed, awaiting their fate. One man, frail and small, read silently. Steve Rogers. His eyes did not waver.
Another recruit glanced sideways at him. "Makes you think twice about enlisting, huh?"
Steve did not look away. "Nope."
When his name was called, he stood. Quietly, he folded the paper, bearing the weight of his hopes in a wiry frame.
In the examination chamber, a physician studied his file with increasing dismay.
"So many ailments... What did your father die of?"
"Mustard gas," Steve replied. "1918. The 107th Infantry."
"And your mother?"
"She was a nurse. TB ward. She caught it, couldn't beat it."
The doctor looked at him with pity. "They weren't weak," Steve said. "They were fighters. If you just give me a—"
"Sorry, son." The doctor's voice was firm but kind. "You'd be ineligible on your asthma alone."
Steve's eyes burned as the rejection stamp fell: 4F.
Flashback ends
That was the fifth time. Fifth damn time.
Steve didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
Alexander broke the silence. "You know, I think they've started memorizing your face by now."
Steve let out a dry, bitter laugh. "Maybe they'll put it up on the wall. 'Do not admit—chronic asthma, heart murmurs, can't throw a punch to save his life.'"
Alexander turned to him fully. "Don't say that."
Steve looked away.
"You have more courage in your little finger than half those bastards in there. You just… you weren't made for their system, that's all."
Steve shrugged, the weight of the world pressing down on his too-thin shoulders. "The world doesn't care about courage, Alex. It cares about numbers. Height. Muscles. Clean lungs. I've got none of those."
Alexander placed a firm hand on Steve's back. "You've got a spine, though. The strongest one I've ever seen. Come on, let's get out of here."
---
[POV: Steve Rogers]
The street buzzed with weekend life—vendors yelling, cars honking, a couple sharing a milkshake in a corner café. It all felt distant to Steve, like a world that didn't belong to him.
But walking beside his brother, the sting eased. Just a little.
Alexander always made things seem lighter. Like nothing was impossible—not even a scrawny kid becoming a soldier.
"Where we going?" Steve asked, trying to shake the funk off.
Alexander grinned. "We're going to the movies. Captain Blood's playing—Errol Flynn in his prime. Maybe he'll teach you a thing or two about sword fighting."
Steve laughed. "Great. If I ever get stuck in a duel in the 1600s, I'll be ready."
They entered the theater, the scent of buttered popcorn and dust greeting them like old friends. The lobby glowed with warm light, the marquee above reading "CAPTAIN BLOOD – 7 PM" in fading letters.
Alexander looked around, then cursed under his breath. "Damn. I forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"There's something I gotta do. Something important."
Steve frowned. "What? Where?"
Alexander clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. I'll be back in a couple hours, tops. You stay and enjoy the movie. I'll find you afterward."
Steve hesitated. "You sure?"
"Positive. Consider this my treat."
Alexander gave a reassuring smile, the kind only an older brother could master. And then he was gone.
---
[POV: Alexander Rogers]
The sky had grown darker by the time he returned to the theater.
A storm was brewing—not in the clouds, but in his gut. Something felt off. Like he'd left something behind and fate had rearranged the board in his absence.
He passed the ticket booth, empty now. Showtimes were almost over.
Inside the lobby: no Steve.
Alexander pushed into the main theater hall—only a couple of couples making out in the back, a janitor sweeping up popcorn, but no sign of his brother's pale mop of blond hair.
"Steve?" he called out.
No answer.
He stepped back outside, worry starting to needle into his nerves. The street was mostly deserted now. Only the faint buzz of neon and the distant rumble of a streetcar echoed in the quiet.
"Steve!" he called again, more urgent this time.
And then—he heard it.
A grunt.
A sharp, wet thud.
From the alley behind the theater.
Alexander broke into a sprint.
---
[POV: Steve Rogers]
Pain blossomed across his ribs like fire.
The alley smelled like rotting cabbage and piss, the kind of place bullies thrived. The thug was big—twice his size—and angry. Steve didn't even know what set him off. He'd just been waiting outside for Alex.
One wrong glance and suddenly fists were flying.
Steve tried to cover up, tried to hit back, but his punches were like swatting a brick wall. Another fist caught his temple and sent him sprawling.
His head swam.
But he didn't stay down. He never stayed down.
He crawled to his knees, bloody lip, shaking hands.
The thug grabbed him by the collar, fist raised again. "Stay down, you dumb bastard."
Steve just looked up. "I can… do this all day."
And then, the thug went flying.
---
[POV: Alexander Rogers]
The bastard didn't even see it coming.
Alexander's fist connected with the man's jaw like a freight train. The thug slammed into the alley wall and dropped like a sack of potatoes, out cold.
Alexander knelt beside Steve instantly. "Jesus, Stevie. Are you—?"
"I'm fine," Steve muttered, voice thick with pain and pride.
"You look like you got run over by a truck."
Steve chuckled, then winced. "Feels like it."
Alexander helped him to his feet, arm over his shoulder. "You dumbass. Why didn't you just run?"
Steve looked at him, bruised but defiant. "Because I'm not afraid."
Alexander sighed—half admiration, half frustration. "You're gonna get yourself killed one day."
"I'd rather die standing."
A voice called from the alley mouth.
"Guess I came late to the party."
---
[POV: Bucky Barnes]
James Buchanan Barnes, fresh in army dress uniform, walked into the alley with a cocky grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
His best friend looked like he'd been mauled.
Alexander nodded at him. "Well, if it isn't the golden boy himself."
"Figured I'd show up before Stevie here signs up for a fifth time and gets his skull cracked."
Bucky stepped forward, examining Steve's swollen eye.
"Christ, buddy. You alright?"
"I've had worse."
"Like hell you have."
Steve stumbled to his feet, breathing hard. As he straightened up, a folded piece of paper slipped from his jacket pocket and fluttered to the ground. Bucky caught it before the wind could take it. Curious, he unfolded it—and frowned.
"Again with this?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Let's see… Paramus, huh? You're not even trying anymore."
Steve looked away, guilt flashing across his face.
"It's still a federal crime to lie on one of these, you know. And really? New Jersey?"
Alexander seing this changing subject while saying "Mind explaining what happened?"
Flashback
Few hours before
In a darkened cinema, the flags of tyranny flickered onscreen. Marching boots, screaming warheads, propaganda painted with righteousness.
Steve sat in the audience, unmoved but intent. Around him, others whispered or wept. A woman dabbed tears from her eyes—perhaps her love had gone to war. An old couple watched in silence, history weighing heavily on their shoulders.
A voice from the shadows jeered. "Play the cartoon, already!"
Steve whispered, quiet yet firm, "Could you keep it down?"
The man mocked again. Steve, fed up, jabbed him.
"You wanna shut up?"
The man stood—towering, broad, cruel. A brute.
Flashback ends
Alexander smiles "Ok I understand "
Steve's gaze dropped, landing on the insignia stitched into Bucky's uniform. His voice came quiet.
"So, you got your assignment."
Bucky nodded solemnly. "107th. We ship out for England at dawn."
A silence settled between them. Then Bucky added, softer this time, "Tonight's my last night."
Steve gave a faint, bittersweet smile. "So where are we starting? A church?"
Bucky chuckled, his grin crooked. "Yeah… maybe that's stop number two."
The three peoples began walking out of the alley, their steps slow, unhurried. Steve glanced sideways.
"Where are we headed?"
Without breaking stride, Bucky pulled out a folded newspaper and handed it to him with a grin full of promise.
"To the future," he said.