The sun hung high above Camp Lehigh's practice field, casting sharp shadows over the rows of fresh-faced recruits standing in attention. They were strong, broad-shouldered, and ready for war—or so it seemed. As the camera of life panned across them, it dipped to a figure at the end of the line: Steve Rogers. Slight of frame, clad in standard-issue army green, he looked almost like a child playing soldier. Yet in his eyes burned a fire—unyielding, resolute.
"Recruits, attention!"
The sharp command rang out, crisp and authoritative. Striding across the field came a woman in a British military uniform—Agent Peggy Carter. Composed, commanding, and with an air of confident grace, she didn't need to raise her voice to seize the moment.
"My name is Agent Carter," she announced. "I'll be overseeing your induction today."
With practiced efficiency, she began distributing clipboards and papers. When Steve glanced at his, the bold header made his brows lift slightly: LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT. Some of the men beside him exchanged uneasy glances. Steve, however, remained calm.
From a few feet down the line, a muscular man scoffed, his thick New York accent cutting through the still air. "What's with the fancy accent, Queen Victoria? Thought I signed up for the U.S. Army."
Carter arched a brow, the faintest smile playing at the edge of her lips. "Your name, soldier?"
"Gilmore Hodge, your majesty."
"Step forward, Hodge."
He did so with a swagger, his smirk widening.
"Right leg forward. Arms like this," she instructed calmly.
Hodge's smirk turned into something more suggestive. "We gonna wrestle? I got a few moves I think you'll like."
She stepped in, mirroring his stance.
"Have you studied Jiu Jitsu?" she asked, her voice silky but dangerous. "Where your opponent's size and momentum are used against him?"
Hodge blinked. "No—"
Her fist met his nose in a flash. Hodge crashed to the ground, gasping, a thread of blood snaking from one nostril.
"Neither have I," she said, adjusting her cuff as the other recruits chuckled. Even Steve couldn't suppress his grin.
"Agent Carter!"
The voice boomed across the field like a thunderclap. All heads turned as Colonel Chester Phillips approached, square-jawed and every inch the hardened military man. Behind him trailed a gentler figure in a coat: Dr. Abraham Erskine.
"Colonel Phillips," Peggy said, stepping aside respectfully.
Phillips surveyed the recruits with a critical eye, pausing to glare at Hodge. "You. Fall back in line and stand at attention until someone tells you otherwise."
Mumbling, Hodge obeyed.
Phillips turned to the rest of the men. "General Patton once said, wars are fought with weapons, but won by men." His gaze swept across them, lingering briefly—and disapprovingly—on Steve.
"We're going to win this war because we have the best men. And because we're going to make them better."
That evening, the barracks buzzed with noise. The recruits unpacked and claimed bunks, some pinning up photos of girls from back home. Hodge had his corner plastered in pin-ups.
In contrast, Steve sat quietly on his bed, unloading dog-eared books—histories, military strategies, classic biographies. Alex, his brother, helped stack them neatly.
Colonel Phillips' voice echoed faintly from outside.
"The Strategic Scientific Reserve is an Allied effort," he was saying. "A collaboration of the brightest minds from across the free world."
The next morning saw the men straining on the obstacle course. The sun beat down as they ran, climbed, and crawled.
Steve struggled to keep pace, and more than once Alex called out encouragement beside him. They approached a tall cargo net, and Steve, foot caught, faltered. Above him, Hodge sneered and used Steve's back as a stepping stone, smashing his boot into Steve's face as he climbed over.
From an elevated platform, Dr. Erskine observed, silent but watchful, as Steve gritted his teeth and pulled himself up anyway.
"Our goal is to build the finest army history has ever known," Colonel Phillips declared nearby. "And every army begins with one man."
Later, Steve crawled through thick mud beneath a net of barbed wire. Peggy stood nearby with a stopwatch, watching. The other recruits had already finished and stood catching their breath.
"By the end of this week," Phillips continued, unseen, "we'll choose that man."
Just as Steve was nearly through, Hodge, ever the menace, gave a sharp kick to one of the supports. The net collapsed, pinning Steve to the ground.
Phillips' voice hardened. "He'll be the first of a new kind of soldier. The tip of the spear. One who will personally deliver Adolf Hitler to the gates of hell."
That afternoon, the practice field was filled with calisthenics. Recruits did push-ups under Peggy's sharp gaze. Steve strained to complete a single one, his arms trembling. Nearby, Hodge powered through easily.
Phillips walked with Erskine, clearly skeptical.
"You're not actually considering both Roger brothers, are you?" he asked.
"I'm not just considering them," Erskine replied evenly. "I believe they're the right choice."
"I can see Alex," Phillips admitted. "The kid's got talent. But Steve? The ninety-pound asthmatic you brought onto my base? I let it slide because I thought he'd be useful to your research. Like a lab rat. Not a soldier."
Phillips gestured toward Steve, who was still fighting gravity to finish a push-up.
"You put a needle in that kid and it's gonna shoot out the other side. Look at him—he's making me tear up."
"I'm looking for more than muscle," Erskine said quietly.
Phillips frowned. "You know how long it took to get this program off the ground? The favors I had to call in with Senator Brandt?"
"I do," Erskine replied.
"Hodge passed every test. He's strong, obedient. He's what you'd call a real soldier."
"He's a bully," Erskine said simply.
Phillips stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned and grabbed a grenade from a nearby crate.
"You don't win wars with kindness," he muttered. "You win them with guts."
He pulled the pin and hurled it.
"GRENADE!"
Chaos exploded as the recruits scattered. Most dove for cover. Hodge practically flew under a jeep. But Steve didn't run. His eyes widened—then he hurled himself toward the grenade.
"Everybody DOWN!"
But just before he could land on it, Alex darted forward, pushed Steve aside, snatched the grenade, and hurled it into an open patch of ground.
Everyone held their breath.
Nothing.
A soft clink—and silence.
The label on the crate came into view: M-56 Training Grenades – Inert.
Erskine smiled.
Phillips, however, wasn't impressed.
Steve remained sprawled in the dirt, blinking.
"Uh... was that a test?"
That night, the barracks were quiet. Steve sat alone on his bunk, the other beds now stripped, their owners already asleep or gone.
Dr. Erskine entered, holding a bottle of schnapps.
"Can't sleep?" he asked.
Steve looked up. "Guess I'm just nervous."
Erskine offered the bottle. "Me too."
"Can I ask you something?" Steve asked after a pause.
"Just one?"
Steve chuckled. "Why me? I mean... I get why you'd pick Alex. But me?"
Erskine sat, sighing softly. "That is perhaps the only question that truly matters."
He gestured for Steve to bring two glasses. He held up the bottle.
"This is from Augsburg—my hometown. People forget the first country Hitler invaded... was his own."
Steve looked puzzled. Erskine went on.
"After the Great War, my people felt broken. Small. Then Hitler came. With his parades and promises. He found me, heard of my work. Said I could help make Germany strong again."
FLASHBACK – BERLIN, 1938
A younger Erskine labored in a sleek lab beside Johann Schmidt—sharp-eyed, cold, wearing a Nazi armband.
BACK TO BARRACKS
"I wasn't interested. So he sent Schmidt, head of Hydra. A brilliant mind, obsessed with myths and power. He and Hitler—both saw themselves as gods in the making."
Steve frowned. "Wagner?"
"Operas about war and gods. Blood and destiny," Erskine explained. Then he smiled gently. "Me? I prefer Benny Goodman."
Steve chuckled. "I like jazz too."
Erskine's expression grew serious. "Hitler used fantasy to control the masses. But Schmidt... Schmidt believes it."
Here is a rewritten version of the entire scene in novel format, keeping the core essence intact while adapting it to a more immersive and narrative-driven style. This includes internal emotions, scenic detail, and descriptive pacing:
Berlin, 1938 — Flashback
A dim, dust-laden laboratory flickered under the glow of gas lamps. Shadows danced across the old stone walls, broken only by the turning pages of an ancient tome. Johann Schmidt stood hunched over it, his gloved fingers reverent as they glided across symbols carved long before the rise of man.
They left something behind... a gift. No, a test. That's what he told himself. To the world, these were myths—old gods and fairy tales. But to Schmidt, they were instructions.
And he would follow them.
Dr. Erskine (V.O.)
"He became convinced that a great power had been hidden on Earth, left here by the gods—waiting to be claimed by someone worthy, someone superior."
Later, in that same lab, Schmidt confronted Erskine with wild conviction in his eyes. He had deciphered the formula. Understood its potential. Erskine had pleaded with him, warned him. But it was too late.
A cold click echoed as Schmidt raised a Luger, pressing the muzzle to Erskine's brow.
Dr. Erskine (V.O.)
"And when he realized what my formula could unlock… Schmidt could not resist. He had to become that superior man."
Camp Lehigh, Night — Present
The barracks were quiet. Dr. Erskine sat opposite Steve, his eyes cast low to his hands. They trembled slightly. The weight of memory clung to him like smoke.
Steve leaned in, voice low.
"Did it make him strong?"
Erskine's lips pressed into a line. "Yes," he said softly. "But there were... other effects."
Berlin, 1938 — Flashback Continued
Schmidt lay on a steel examination table, sleeves rolled up. Sweat trickled down his temple. He wasn't patient. Not anymore. Another officer raised a pistol toward Erskine, urging him to proceed. But Erskine hesitated.
Before he could stop it, Schmidt seized the syringe and drove it into his own arm.
Dr. Erskine (V.O.)
"The serum... it was never ready. But more importantly, neither was the man. It doesn't just strengthen the body. It magnifies the soul."
Schmidt's back arched violently. His eyes bulged, veins surged, and then came the scream—a primal roar of agony as his skin seared from within.
Dr. Erskine (V.O.)
"Good becomes great... bad becomes worse."
Camp Lehigh — Night
Erskine poured schnapps into the glasses Steve held. A pause lingered between them.
"A strong man," Erskine said, lifting his gaze to Steve, "may grow arrogant. May lose respect for power if he's always had it. But a weak man…" He smiled gently. "A weak man knows its value. Knows compassion."
Steve raised his glass. "Thanks... I think."
Erskine chuckled, adjusting his spectacles.
"Whatever happens tomorrow," he said, touching a finger to Steve's chest, "promise me you'll stay who you are—not a perfect soldier…"
He met Steve's eyes.
"But a good man."
They clinked glasses.
"To the little guys," Steve murmured.
As Steve brought the drink to his lips, Erskine quickly snatched it away.
"What am I thinking? You've got a procedure tomorrow. No fluids."
Steve grinned. "We'll drink it after."
Erskine poured Steve's schnapps into his own glass and took a sip.
"I don't have a procedure tomorrow," he said with a wink. "Is very good. I'll save you a little."
And the same fate once awaited another...
Hydra Headquarters — Day
Wagner's "Das Rheingold" echoed through the stone corridors of a fortress carved into the mountainside. A massive bay window overlooked the sea. Inside, an artist painted diligently—but not comfortably.
Knocking echoed through the chamber.
"Sir?" came a hesitant voice.
Dr. Arnim Zola entered, pausing when he saw Schmidt's silhouette against the window.
"Don't stare, Doctor," Schmidt warned.
The painter's palette brimmed with shades of red—like blood on canvas.
"You've found him?" Zola asked.
Schmidt gestured. Zola stepped closer to the table and saw the photographs—Erskine in New York. On a sidewalk. In a taxi. Always watched.
"You disapprove," Schmidt said without looking back.
"Berlin doesn't believe this is a wise use of resources."
"And you are their mouthpiece now?"
Zola hesitated. "I simply don't see why it concerns you."
"Because that formula," Schmidt said, voice like steel, "is the only thing standing between the Allies and the power we now possess. Remove it, and our victory becomes inevitable."
Zola nodded slowly. "Shall I give the order?"
"It's already done."
Zola turned to leave, but Schmidt's voice stopped him.
"Dr. Zola... what do you think?"
Zola glanced uneasily at the artist, then the canvas.
"A masterpiece," he lied.
---
To be continued...