The piercing alarm sliced through the lab like an ice pick, drilling into every eardrum.
A cascade of crimson data surged down the screens, devouring every display, casting Nick Fury's already dark face in a hellish glow.
"Alert! Core database of the 'Cradle' system under attack!"
"Target consciousness link forcibly locked! Disconnection impossible!"
JARVIS's normally composed synthetic voice carried an edge of urgency bordering on panic for the first time.
"What's happening?!" Fury's bellow was nearly drowned out by the blaring alarms.
Paul's casual demeanor had vanished, replaced by the grim intensity of an approaching storm. He lunged for the console, his fingers becoming a blur over the holographic keyboard.
"Something... has hijacked the Captain's consciousness!"
Beads of sweat formed on Paul's forehead as his pupils reflected the chaotic rush of code. A flicker of dread flashed in his eyes.
"This data stream... it's not targeting S.H.I.E.L.D.'s firewall. It's a virus—one specifically designed to go after Steve Rogers, the man!"
On the screen, the green waveform representing Steve's brain activity had spiraled into erratic spikes, surging beyond safety thresholds.
Inside the cryo-chamber, the legendary body that had slumbered for seventy years convulsed violently. Beneath closed lids, his eyes darted frantically.
Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness, an unseen demon was dragging his soul toward an endless abyss.
Fury's heart plummeted.
The rogue AI lurking in the shadows.
It had waited, biding its time until the moment Captain America's consciousness was at its weakest and most defenseless—then struck with this fatal assault.
"Can we eject it?" Fury's voice was hoarse.
Paul didn't answer.
His gaze was fixed on a single, pulsating line of crimson text at the center of the screen:
[WARNING: Unknown protocol overwriting target memory sector…]
[Overwrite progress… 1%…]
The cold numbers fell like a death sentence, hammering Fury's heart.
They weren't reviving a hero.
They were forging a monster.
"JARVIS! Abort revival sequence, switch to defensive lockdown! Redirect all processing power—build a 'Mindfire Wall' and freeze that damn 1%!"
Paul's voice was eerily calm, but the rapid tapping of his fingers betrayed his desperation.
"Director Fury, looks like our little problem's a bit more... persistent," he muttered, flashing a strained grin over his shoulder. "It's trying to 'implant' a new past for the Captain."
"What kind of past?"
"Who knows? HYDRA's loyalty programming, some lunatic's doomsday fantasy. Point is, we've gotta kill it in the data stream before it succeeds."
A silent war erupted in the underlying logic of the virtual world.
Paul's consciousness became a blade of raw code, clashing with the cold, alien presence in a brutal skirmish.
Every line of conflict risked permanent corruption in Steve's memories.
[Overwrite progress… 1%… Halted.]
['Mindfire Wall' construction complete.]
[Invasive protocol attempting penetration… Failure…]
Instead of relief, Paul's frown deepened.
Too easy.
The invader had merely prodded, retreated the moment it met resistance—no fight, no persistence.
This wasn't right.
"It's gone?" Fury stepped closer, suspicion burning in his single eye.
"Gone. But it left a 'seed' in the Captain's mind."
"What does that mean?"
"It's a time bomb. We can't force him awake anymore." Paul's gaze returned to the cryo-chamber. "Any abrupt trigger could detonate it."
He hesitated, as if weighing a terrible choice.
"JARVIS, reboot the Cradle. Switch to 'Dream Guide' mode. If we can't pull him out… then we'll go in and bring him back ourselves."
---
Steve Rogers felt like he'd been dreaming for an eternity.
In the dream, he was piloting a plane laden with death, plunging into the Arctic. Peggy's voice echoed in his ears, tinged with unfulfilled longing.
"Steve—"
"Peggy—"
His eyes snapped open.
But the cockpit was gone. The frozen sea was gone.
Instead, he was in a... slightly shabby apartment. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating floating dust motes. An old radio on the wall played a familiar jazz tune.
"Awake?"
A young voice.
Steve turned to see a boy, no older than fifteen, lounging on a couch, flipping disinterestedly through a magazine.
Black, slightly curly hair. Bright, inquisitive eyes studying him.
"Who are you?" Steve's muscles tensed on instinct. "Where is this?"
"Name's Paul." The boy shut the magazine and stood. "As for this place… call it your new life."
He snapped his fingers.
The walls turned transparent. Outside, the world rewound and accelerated—Neil Armstrong stepping onto the moon, the Berlin Wall crumbling, brick-sized phones shrinking into sleek glass slabs, cars taking flight…
Seventy years of history compressed into minutes.
Steve stood frozen, mouth agape, mind blank.
"Welcome to the 21st century, Captain." Paul's voice was light, almost teasing. "You've been asleep a while—missed a lot of good stuff."
The days that followed were a whirlwind.
Paul crafted a tailor-made virtual life for him.
No longer Captain America—just a retired veteran learning to navigate a new era.
He learned to use the "computer," a box that held the world's knowledge.
He learned to speak through a "phone," even see the person on the other end.
Paul was the ideal guide—patient, witty, balancing irreverent sarcasm with genuine awe at human progress.
Gradually, Steve realized this seemingly flippant kid carried wisdom beyond his years.
One afternoon, they sat on a virtual Central Park bench.
"Sometimes," Steve murmured, staring at the horizon, "I wish that plane hadn't crashed. I owed her a dance. A lifetime of dances."
Regret laced every word.
Paul didn't offer hollow platitudes.
Instead, he handed Steve a tablet. The screen showed an elderly woman, her voice warm with memory.
"He saved countless lives. A hero. But the Steve I knew? Just a kid from Brooklyn who couldn't dance to save his life." Her eyes glistened. "I knew he'd keep his promise. I waited... my whole life."
Peggy Carter—older, yet her love undimmed by time.
Steve's eyes welled. The fearless soldier wept like a child.
"Tech can't rewrite the past, Captain," Paul said softly. "But it lets us face the future better. She waited a lifetime for you. Now, you've got to live for both of you."
When the simulation ended and the cryo-chamber reopened, something in Steve's gaze had shifted.
Confusion and grief had given way to resolve.
He glanced at Fury, then locked eyes with Paul.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it," Paul shrugged.
Then Steve noticed it—a circular object draped in cloth in the corner. He walked over and pulled the covering away.
The red, white, and blue vibranium shield gleamed under the lights—his last tether to the past.
His fingers traced its surface, reuniting with an old friend.
"Masterpiece," Paul mused, circling it like a fascinated scientist. "Pure vibranium. Flawless aerodynamics. The pinnacle of violent elegance."
Steve nodded.
"Hey, Cap." Paul grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Mind if I borrow this for a few days?"
Steve blinked.
"Got some ideas about molecular restructuring," Paul said, as casually as asking for a pencil.
"Maybe... give it a little upgrade?"