S.H.I.E.L.D., Triskelion, Sublevel Nine, Bio-Research Zone.
The air carried the sterile scent of antiseptic, mingled with the dry warmth of high-end server cooling.
Rows of advanced monitors displayed blue-green data streams cascading like silent waterfalls, flooding the retinas of those who observed.
Paul stood quietly in front of the massive one-way glass, clad in an ill-fitting white lab coat, hands buried in his pockets. On the other side of the glass lay a cryochamber, its occupant wrapped in life-support tubes.
Inside, a blond man lay still—muscled, handsome, as though merely asleep.
"Physiological indicators have stabilized within normal human parameters."
"Cell activity at 98.7%, exceeding theoretical peaks."
"Brainwaves indicate deep sleep state—no anomalous fluctuations detected."
JARVIS's voice relayed each piece of data crisply through the bone-conduction earpiece. Any one of these figures would send shockwaves through the field of biology.
A man frozen for seventy years, his body not only intact but enhanced beyond even the finest modern athletes, thanks to the super-soldier serum.
It was a miracle.
But to Paul, it was just a set of variables to be solved.
"How's the psychological evaluation model coming along?" Paul asked softly, never taking his eyes off the sleeping man.
"Preliminary model established. Based on current data, target has a 92.3% probability of acute stress disorder upon waking, a 78.1% chance of severe cognitive dissonance and detachment from reality, and a 45% likelihood of… violent tendencies."
JARVIS's analysis was clinical.
Paul's lip curled involuntarily.
Violent tendencies? Against who? The glass beakers in here, or the one-eyed spook who dug him out of the ice?
The thought nearly made him laugh.
Footsteps approached from behind—silent, betraying nothing until the slightest shift of air marked their arrival.
Nick Fury appeared beside him, his face its usual unreadable mask, clad in stark black against the sterile white of the lab.
"When will he wake?" Fury's voice was rough, like sandpaper.
"Physically? Now. Just crank up the nutrient solution, give him a shot of adrenaline, and in five minutes, you'll have a bouncing Captain America."
Fury's single eye cut to Paul, sharp as a blade.
"You know that's not what I meant."
"Of course." Paul dropped the flippant tone and turned, leaning against the glass to meet Fury's gaze. "You're asking how to keep him from waking up and immediately cracking under the strain—how to stop him from smashing everything in sight."
Silence.
There was no easy solution.
They could revive his body, but nothing could mend a soul left behind for seventy years.
How do you tell a soldier who just fought through gunfire that the war's long over? That his comrades, his love—all he knew—are now just black ink in a history book?
"We have standard psychological intervention protocols," Fury said slowly. "Psych experts, historians, even a room styled like the '40s. We'll break the truth to him gradually."
"And then what?" Paul countered. "Show him documentaries? His lover's obituary? Director Fury, you'd be carving his heart out with a dull knife. Psychological torture at its finest."
Fury's expression darkened.
"Then what's your brilliant idea?"
"My method is… gentler. And more thorough."
Paul smiled—a look that unsettled Fury with its near divine certainty.
"Ever heard of virtual reality, Director?"
Fury frowned. "Sony's gaming console? Or those crude military sims?"
"Toys," Paul said, waving a finger. "I'm talking full neural-immersive experience. A dream… tailored just for him."
He flicked a hand, and a holographic screen materialized, rapidly assembling architectural models and character data.
A '40s-era New York took shape—vintage cars, women in long skirts, a paperboy waving headlines declaring: "Victory!"
Fury's pupil twitched.
"His dream starts right before the crash. He never went down. He won, came home a hero—parades, cheers. He reunites with his lost brothers-in-arms, raises a glass."
Paul's voice dropped, hypnotic.
"And most importantly…" His finger tapped the screen, zooming in on a woman in a red dress, radiant—
"He gets to keep that seventy-years-too-late dance."
Peggy Carter.
Fury stared at the image—every freckle, every laugh line visible—and felt a chill.
This wasn't tech. It was sorcery.
"We let him live that life. Fulfill every wish, mend every regret. Let his spirit saturate in perfection."
"And then?" Fury ground out.
"Then… we plant the truth," Paul said, amused. "He'll notice newspapers never update. People repeat phrases. His lover's smile never changes."
"He'll realize it's all a lie."
"When he starts questioning his reality—that's when we pull him out. By then, he's ready. Not forced into cruelty, but choosing to break the illusion."
Paul dismissed the screen.
"So, Director—do you want a soldier waking in agony, or a hero stepping into a new world?"
Fury said nothing, gaze shifting between the sleeping Steve Rogers and this fourteen-year-old.
For the first time, he thought the kid was the real monster.
An unknowable, uncontrollable force he needed.
"Show me the tech," Fury finally said.
Paul grinned. "JARVIS—initiate Cradle Protocol. Authorization: Nick Fury."
The far wall slid up, revealing a vast, gleaming chamber.
A silver sphere hung suspended, pulsing with gold energy. Hair-thin fibers branched from it, feeding into a nightmare of a supercomputer.
"Neural-interactive VR. I call it the Cradle," Paul said, like a kid at show-and-tell. "It simulates all five senses, interfaces directly with the cortex. Power? Mini arc reactor—good for three centuries."
Fury stepped closer, hand hovering near the sphere.
The hum under his fingertips was alien—beyond his world.
"Who are you?" Fury asked, the words heavy.
Paul only smiled.
He moved to the cryochamber, studying the face inside.
"I'm just… an audience for the perfect dance."
"Begin, JARVIS. Act One—The Last Dance at the Stork Club."
"Command confirmed. Cradle engaging. Life-support sync established… Neural link initiating…"
"Brainwave sync: 10%… 30%… 70%..."
For the first time in seventy years, Steve Rogers' brow relaxed.
Maybe, in his dream, a familiar tune played on a distant radio.
And a woman in red waited, smiling, at the edge of the dance floor.
Fury watched, unease coiling tighter.
This wasn't waking a hero.
It was opening Pandora's box—with the key handed to him by a boy who defied understanding.
A thought nagged at him.
Before Paul had agreed to come, S.H.I.E.L.D. satellites had tracked four unidentified objects launching from Stark's private island—vanishing into orbit.
What were those satellites?
The question festered, a thorn in the spymaster's mind.