[March 1940 - Sterling Tower, Training Floor]
The heavy bag exploded backward from Alexander's strike, chain links wailing like metal under siege. At twenty-six, he'd sculpted his body into something between an athlete and a weapon—not superhuman, just human pushed to its absolute limit through obsessive training and spite.
"Bozhe moy, your form is like drunk bear trying to dance ballet," Oleg rumbled from the shadows, his thick Russian accent turning the insult into poetry. The ex-Spetsnaz operative had been "recruited" from a Siberian gulag two years ago, which was a polite way of saying Alexander had bribed every guard between Moscow and nowhere. "Too much shoulder. You telegraph like Stalin announcing purge."
"Maybe I like telegraphing." Alexander threw another combination, sweat flying in arcs. "Gives my enemies false hope before I crush their dreams."
"Only thing you crush is heavy bag. And my will to live." Oleg stepped onto the mat, moving with the economy of a man who'd spent decades turning violence into art. "Again. And this time, da? Try not to fight like American cowboy who watched too many John Wayne films."
They sparred for an hour, Oleg's systema against Alexander's bastardized amalgamation of a dozen martial arts. In his past life, he'd watched YouTube tutorials. In this one, he'd hired the deadliest men alive to beat knowledge into his bones until muscle memory transcended death itself.
"Better," Oleg admitted after Alexander finally scored a takedown. "Still govno, but now is premium govno. Like American vodka—technically alcohol, but insult to concept."
"I'll take it." Alexander rolled to his feet, already calculating. "Firearms next. I want to run the tactical course."
"Da, because clearly what you need is more ways to compensate for tiny—"
"Finish that sentence and I'll double your salary."
"—tiny skills in hand-to-hand combat." Oleg grinned, gold teeth glinting. "What? You think I insult your manhood? Please. Is obvious you compensate with entire skyscraper."
The weapons range occupied the floor below, soundproofed to the point where you could fire artillery and the offices above would never know. Alexander had spent a fortune on it, but considering what was coming, it was an investment in survival.
"Today we work with Colt," Oleg announced, producing the M1911 with the reverence of a priest handling communion wine. "Is good American gun. Reliable. Like Russian woman—not prettiest, but gets job done."
"Your metaphors need work."
"Your shooting needs work. Metaphors are luxury for after you stop missing stationary targets."
Alexander took the pistol, muscle memory from two lives converging. In his past life, he'd been decent at Call of Duty. In this one, Oleg had made him disassemble and reassemble weapons blindfolded until his fingers knew every component by touch.
"Stance is shit," Oleg corrected, adjusting Alexander's position with casual violence. "You stand like accountant, not killer. Wider. Da. Now, breathe like you have seen death and found it boring."
Alexander fired. The target's center mass sprouted holes in a grouping tight enough to make Oleg grunt approval.
"Not terrible. For American businessman who thinks violence is spreadsheet problem." Oleg produced more weapons—a Thompson submachine gun, a Winchester rifle, even a stolen German MP40. "Now we see if you can shoot when target shoots back."
"The targets don't—"
The first paintball caught Alexander in the chest, bright red spreading across his shirt like modern art. Oleg stood at the far end of the range, paintball gun in hand and a smile that would make Stalin nervous.
"Lesson one: Enemy does not wait for you to be ready. Again!"
For the next hour, Alexander learned the difference between shooting and combat shooting. Oleg turned it into a brutal game—targets popping up randomly while he peppered Alexander with paintballs from unexpected angles.
"In Stalingrad, we had saying," Oleg commented after a particularly brutal exchange left Alexander looking like a Jackson Pollock painting. "Man who cannot shoot while being shot at is not man—is target practice."
"In New York, we have a saying too," Alexander gasped, ribs aching from impacts. "Fuck you, Oleg."
"Da, is good saying. Very American. Full of spirit and grammatical simplicity." Oleg reset the course. "Again. This time, try to remember—pistol is like desperate ex-lover. Grip too tight, she rebels. Too loose, she leaves you for man with better hands."
"These metaphors are getting worse."
"Your shooting is getting better. I consider fair trade."
By the time they finished, Alexander could put rounds center-mass while diving, rolling, and dodging Oleg's paintball assault. Not special forces level, but good enough for a CEO who might need to shoot his way out of a boardroom gone wrong.
"Next week, we add knives to mix," Oleg announced, securing the weapons. "Is important skill. Sometimes, gun too loud. Sometimes, need to make point more... personally."
"You're enjoying this too much."
"Bah! In gulag, only entertainment was watching men freeze to death or counting lice. This? This is practically Bolshoi Ballet." Oleg checked his watch. "You have phone call from President in five minutes, da? Should wash. You smell like gym sock had baby with gunpowder."
The intercom buzzed before Alexander could respond. "Mr. Sterling? President Roosevelt on line one."
Alexander's pulse jumped. Right on schedule. "Tell him five minutes."
"Sir, it's the President of the United States."
"And I look like I've been murdered by a paintball enthusiast. Five minutes."
He showered in three, dressed in two, and picked up the phone with thirty seconds to spare. Punctuality was just another form of control.
"Mr. President."
"Alexander, my boy!" FDR's voice carried that practiced warmth that made you forget he was calculating your usefulness with every syllable. "How's the tower treating you?"
"Like a mistress with expensive tastes. Beautiful, demanding, and constantly needing attention."
FDR laughed. "I must introduce you to Eleanor. She'd either adopt you or have you shot. Possibly both."
"I'll take my chances. What can Sterling Enterprises do for America today?"
"Straight to business. I appreciate that." The warmth cooled by degrees. "I need you in Washington. Tomorrow. Bring that Stark boy."
"Howard's going to love being called 'boy.' He just turned thirty-three."
"At my age, everyone under fifty is a boy. Will you come?"
"Strategic Scientific Reserve?"
The pause was telling. "You've heard of it?"
"I hear everything eventually, Mr. President. The question is whether I act on it."
"And will you?"
"I'll be there. But I want Colonel Phillips briefed that I don't respond well to military chest-thumping. My ego's fragile. I might cry."
"I'll make sure Chester knows to handle you with kid gloves."
"Velvet gloves. I'm particular about my fabrics."
FDR chuckled. "Until tomorrow, then."
The line went dead. Alexander immediately dialed Howard.
"Stark Industries, Howard speaking, and before you ask, yes, I'm drunk, no, it won't affect my work—"
"Pack a suit. We're going to Washington."
"Now? I'm in the middle of—" A crash echoed through the phone. "Was in the middle of something."
"The President wants to talk about your toys. Specifically, the kind that go boom in German."
"Well, why didn't you lead with that?" More crashing. "I can be ready in an hour."
"Make it two. And Howard? Maybe ease up on the breakfast scotch."
"It's medicinal. I have a condition."
"Yes, it's called alcoholism."
"I prefer 'preemptive liver training.'"
[The Next Day - Washington D.C., Oval Office]
Colonel Chester Phillips looked like someone had carved disapproval from granite and taught it to walk. He studied Alexander with the expression of a man examining a particularly suspicious tax return.
"Dr. Sterling," Phillips said, making the title sound like an accusation. "The President speaks highly of you."
"The President is a politician. Speaking highly of people is literally his job." Alexander settled into his chair like he owned it. "You, on the other hand, look like you'd rather be anywhere else. Possibly invading somewhere."
Howard choked on his cigarette.
Phillips's expression didn't change, which was impressive given it was already at maximum displeasure. "I've read your file."
"Hopefully the abridged version. The full one has my poetry phase. Dark times."
"You made your fortune betting against America."
"I made my fortune betting on math. America just happened to be bad at arithmetic." Alexander leaned forward. "But if it makes you feel better, I reinvested every penny into American industry. I'm a patriot, Colonel. I just prefer my patriotism profitable."
"Gentlemen," FDR interjected smoothly, "perhaps we could focus on the future rather than the past? Chester, these are the men I told you about. Alexander, Howard, meet the head of the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
"The what now?" Howard asked, already reaching for another cigarette.
"A joint Allied effort to develop advanced warfare capabilities," Phillips explained. "We're assembling the best minds before we need them, not after."
"Smart," Alexander noted. "Learn from the last war's mistakes. Though given how many generals you've got who still think cavalry charges are viable, I'm impressed anyone's thinking ahead."
Phillips's jaw tightened. "What makes you think you can contribute to military science? You're a businessman."
"I'm a businessman who owns the largest steel production in America, runs shipyards already building military vessels, and funds more private research than most universities." Alexander smiled. "Plus, I have a delightful personality. Morale booster."
"This is serious—"
"Everything's serious with you military types. Lighten up, Colonel. We're about to science the shit out of warfare. That should be exciting."
"Language," FDR chided mildly.
"Sorry. We're about to science the heck out of warfare. Better?"
Howard was trying very hard not to laugh. Phillips looked like he was calculating how many court martials Alexander would be worth.
"What specific research have you been funding?" Phillips asked through gritted teeth.
"Human performance enhancement. Legal stuff," Alexander added quickly. "Better nutrition, training methods, some pharmaceutical developments. Nothing that violates any treaties we're pretending to care about."
"You have researchers?"
"I have Erskine."
The room went very still.
"Abraham Erskine?" Phillips leaned forward. "The German biochemist?"
"Former German. Current American. I sponsored his immigration when it became clear Germany was getting too interested in his work." Alexander shrugged. "Seemed wasteful to let brilliance die for bad politics."
"His theories on human enhancement—"
"Are no longer theories. We've made significant progress. Animal testing shows remarkable results. Enhanced strength, speed, healing. The applications are endless."
"Or catastrophic," Phillips countered. "What happens when enhancement goes wrong?"
"Same thing that happens when bombs go wrong. People die. Difference is, we're trying to make people harder to kill in the first place."
FDR watched the exchange with interest. "Alexander, what would you need to accelerate this research?"
"Resources. Test subjects. Military oversight to keep me from going full mad scientist." Alexander glanced at Phillips. "Someone to remind me about ethics when I get too focused on results."
"You'd accept oversight?"
"I'd accept partnership. Colonel Phillips brings military experience I lack. I bring resources and flexibility the military lacks. Howard brings genius and questionable taste in facial hair."
"Hey!" Howard protested.
"Tell me that mustache isn't a war crime."
"It's distinguished!"
"It's disturbing. But irrelevant." Alexander turned back to Phillips. "Give us six months. If we don't produce results, you can shut us down and I'll go back to war profiteering like a normal millionaire."
Phillips and FDR exchanged glances. Some invisible communication passed between them.
"Three months," Phillips said finally. "Full oversight. Any hint of unethical experimentation—"
"You'll shut us down faster than a speakeasy in Salt Lake City. Got it." Alexander extended his hand. "Partners?"
Phillips shook it with the enthusiasm of a man gripping a live grenade. "God help us all."
"God's busy. That's why he made scientists." Alexander stood. "Now, who wants to build a super soldier?"