[April 1940 - Sterling Enterprises Advanced Research Division]
The laboratory hummed with the kind of energy that suggested either groundbreaking science or an imminent explosion. Alexander preferred to think of it as both—breakthrough was just controlled catastrophe with better PR.
"The cellular degradation is still unacceptable," Dr. Erskine announced, studying slides that showed what happened when human enhancement went wrong. "Subject twelve lasted seventeen minutes before complete organ failure."
"Seventeen minutes longer than subject eleven," Alexander noted, making adjustments to his calculations. "Progress."
"Progress?" Erskine's voice carried the weight of a man who'd seen his life's work perverted by ideologues. "We're killing mice, Alexander. Slowly and painfully."
"We're learning how not to kill humans slowly and painfully." Alexander set down his pencil. "Doctor, I know this bothers you. It bothers me too. But the alternative is letting the Germans perfect it first."
"The Germans..." Erskine turned away from the microscope. "Johann Schmidt has no such ethical concerns. He would inject himself tomorrow if he thought it would work."
Alexander's blood chilled at the mention of the Red Skull, but he kept his expression neutral. "Then we'd better succeed before he does. Speaking of which, any word from our contacts in Berlin?"
"Schmidt's work proceeds. My former colleagues say he grows more obsessed by the day. He speaks of becoming the first of a new race."
Yeah, and look how well that works out for him. Red Skull: proof that sometimes the outside matches the inside.
"Let him obsess," Alexander said aloud. "Obsession makes people sloppy. We'll be methodical."
The lab door opened without warning. Howard Stark entered like a man who'd discovered confidence in a bottle and decided to buy the whole distillery.
"Gentlemen! Tell me you have good news. Phillips is so far up my ass I'm tasting boot polish."
"Charming imagery," Erskine muttered.
"The news is mixed," Alexander admitted. "We've identified the cellular bonding issue, but solving it requires energy stabilization we haven't achieved yet."
"Energy stabilization?" Howard's eyes lit up. "That's my department. What kind of energy are we talking?"
"The kind that exists mostly in theory." Alexander pulled out a set of equations that looked like someone had declared war on mathematics. "The serum enhances everything—muscles, metabolism, neural function. But the human body isn't designed to handle that level of enhancement. It burns out like a candle in a blast furnace."
Howard studied the equations, cigarette dangling forgotten from his lips. "Jesus. You'd need focused radiation at specific wavelengths to stabilize this. The power requirements alone..."
"Would require a small power plant or something equally impractical," Alexander finished. "Unless..."
"Unless what?"
Alexander moved to his private safe, spinning the combination with practiced ease. Inside, among other impossibilities, sat a small lead-lined box. He opened it carefully, revealing a silver of metal that seemed to hum with its own energy.
"Vibranium," Howard breathed. "Where did you—"
"Does it matter? What matters is its properties." Alexander handed him the sample. "Vibranium doesn't just absorb kinetic energy. It resonates at frequencies we're only beginning to understand. If we could harness that resonance..."
"We could create a stabilization field." Howard's mind was already racing ahead. "The vibranium acts as a focusing element, channeling the radiation precisely where it needs to go. It's brilliant. It's insane. It might actually work."
"I'll take two out of three." Alexander turned to Erskine. "Doctor, if Howard can build the delivery system, can you adjust the serum formula to work with it?"
Erskine was quiet for a moment, wrestling with possibilities and ethics in equal measure. "Perhaps. But we would need to test it. Thoroughly."
"More mice?"
"Larger subjects. Primates, ideally."
"Done. I'll have them here by week's end." Alexander checked his watch. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with someone who makes Phillips look cuddly."
[Sterling Tower - Executive Conference Room]
The woman waiting in the conference room looked like she'd stepped out of a recruitment poster and decided reality wasn't quite up to her standards. Margaret "Peggy" Carter sat with the kind of posture that suggested she could kill you with a teaspoon and make it look like an accident.
"Agent Carter," Alexander greeted, settling into his chair. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Has Phillips decided I need a babysitter?"
"Colonel Phillips has concerns about your... methods." Her accent turned every word into a precisely placed dagger. "I'm here to ensure those concerns remain unfounded."
"How delightfully British. Threat and courtesy in the same breath." Alexander poured himself water, offering her a glass. "Tell me, Agent Carter, what exactly has Phillips shared about our work?"
"Enough to know you're playing with forces that could revolutionize warfare or create catastrophe." She accepted the water but didn't drink. "The question is which you're aiming for."
"Why not both? Catastrophic revolution has a nice ring to it."
Her expression didn't change, but something shifted in her eyes. Assessment, maybe. Or amusement. With the British, it was hard to tell.
"Dr. Sterling—"
"Alexander. If you're going to be watching my every move, we might as well skip the formalities."
"Very well. Alexander." She leaned forward slightly. "What exactly do you hope to achieve with Project Rebirth?"
Create Captain America. Save the world. Try not to die when the weird stuff starts happening. You know, typical Tuesday goals.
"I hope to give the Allies an edge in the coming war," he said instead. "Create soldiers who can survive what normal humans can't. Change the entire arithmetic of warfare."
"And the cost?"
"Everything worth doing has a cost. The question is whether we're willing to pay it." Alexander met her gaze. "Are you, Agent Carter? Willing to pay the price for victory?"
"That depends entirely on the currency required."
"Lives. Always lives. The only variable is how many and whose." He stood, moving to the window. "Look down there. Thousands of people living their lives, blissfully unaware that war is coming. When it arrives, we'll send their sons to die by the millions. Project Rebirth offers an alternative. Fewer soldiers, but better ones. Quality over quantity."
"You make it sound almost noble."
"Nothing noble about it. It's pragmatism dressed in patriotic colors." Alexander turned back. "But if pragmatism saves lives, I'll take it over nobility any day."
Peggy studied him for a long moment. "You're not what I expected."
"Let me guess. Phillips painted me as a war profiteer with delusions of grandeur?"
"Among other colorful descriptions."
"All accurate, I'm sure. But incomplete." Alexander returned to his seat. "Tell me, Agent Carter, what do you know about the German enhanced soldier program?"
Her poker face cracked slightly. "That's classified information."
"So is this entire conversation, yet here we are." He pulled out a file, sliding it across. "My sources in Berlin paint a disturbing picture. Johann Schmidt isn't just theorizing about enhancement. He's experimenting. On himself."
Peggy opened the file, her expression growing darker with each page. Photos, reports, intercepted communications—all painting a picture of a man willing to sacrifice anything for power.
"How did you obtain these?"
"I have employees with flexible interpretations of international law." Alexander shrugged. "The point is, Schmidt won't stop. He believes enhancement is the key to German superiority. We can debate ethics while he creates an army of super-soldiers, or we can act."
"And you believe you can succeed where he'll fail?"
"I believe I have advantages he doesn't. Better scientists, better resources, and most importantly, better test subjects."
"Test subjects." Her voice could have frozen fire. "You mean human beings."
"I mean volunteers who understand the risks and choose to take them anyway." Alexander's voice hardened. "I'm not Schmidt, Agent Carter. I won't force this on anyone. But I won't apologize for giving people the choice to become more than they are."
"Choice assumes they fully understand what they're choosing."
"Does any soldier fully understand what they're choosing when they enlist? They know they might die. That's enough for the recruitment office. Why should this be different?"
"Because death in battle is one thing. Being transformed into God knows what is another."
"You're right." Alexander conceded the point easily. "Which is why I need oversight. Someone to keep me honest when the temptation to push too far becomes overwhelming."
"And you think I'm that someone?"
"I think you're someone who understands that winning ugly is still winning." He leaned back. "Phillips sent you to watch me, but we both know you're here to evaluate whether I'm useful enough to tolerate. So let me save you time. I'm brilliant, amoral, and completely dedicated to giving the Allies every advantage possible. Use me or shut me down, but don't waste both our time with half-measures."
Peggy closed the file, her expression unreadable. "You're remarkably frank about your nature."
"Honesty's efficient. Lies require too much maintenance." Alexander stood. "Would you like a tour of the facilities? See what your tax dollars are funding?"
"I suppose I should see what I'm meant to be overseeing."
They spent the next hour touring Sterling Enterprises' research division. Alexander showed her everything—the labs, the testing facilities, even the failed experiments. No point hiding what she'd discover anyway.
"This is ambitious," Peggy noted, studying the enhancement chamber Howard was designing. "Ambitious usually means expensive."
"I'm privately funding most of it. Amazing what you can afford when you bet against the market at the right time." Alexander watched her reaction. "Does that bother you? That I profited from the crash?"
"What bothers me is brilliance without conscience." She turned to face him. "You're clearly brilliant. The question remains whether you have a conscience."
"I have exactly as much conscience as I can afford." Alexander smiled. "Which is more than Schmidt but less than you'd prefer. It's a balance."
"Everything's a balance with you, isn't it?"
"The universe runs on balance. Push too far in any direction and it pushes back." He gestured at the lab. "That's what we're doing here. Pushing the boundaries of human capability while trying not to break them entirely."
"And if you do break them?"
"Then we learn from the failure and try again." Alexander met her gaze. "That's how progress works, Agent Carter. You break things until you figure out how to build them better."
"Including people?"
"Especially people. We're remarkably resilient when properly motivated."
She was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "I'll be assigning myself to oversee this project personally."
"Phillips approved that?"
"Phillips will approve it when I explain the alternative is letting you run unsupervised." She moved toward the door, then paused. "One more thing, Alexander. I've read your entire file. Not just the version Phillips has."
His blood chilled, but he kept his expression neutral. "And?"
"And you're either the luckiest man alive or the most careful planner I've ever encountered." She smiled, sharp and knowing. "I look forward to discovering which."
After she left, Alexander stood alone in the lab, mind racing. Peggy Carter was sharper than he'd anticipated. If anyone could piece together the impossibility of his success rate, it would be her.
Time to be more careful. Or more lucky. Preferably both.
"She's gonna be trouble," Torrio said, emerging from the shadows where he'd been observing. The old gangster moved with the quiet confidence of a man who'd survived Chicago's beer wars. "Dame like that sees too much."
"Just the usual problems. Government oversight, ethical dilemmas, trying to create super-soldiers without destroying humanity." Alexander rubbed his temples. "You know, Tuesday problems."
"In Chicago, we had a saying: 'The Feds only show up when you're worth their time.'" Torrio straightened his tie, a habit from his bootlegging days. "Means you're playing in the big leagues now."
"That's... actually quite apt."
"Course it is. Didn't run Chicago by being stupid." Torrio moved to the door. "Want me to put a tail on the British broad? Discreet-like?"
"No. Carter's too sharp for standard surveillance. But double security on all sensitive materials. If she's digging, I want to know what she finds before she finds it."
"Already done. Also, package arrived from Berlin. Your 'flexible' employees succeeded."
Alexander's pulse quickened. "Schmidt's research?"
"Part of it. Rest was too heavily guarded, but this is a good start." Torrio produced an envelope. "Cost extra. Apparently breaking into Nazi research facilities is bad for your health."
"Pay them double. And set up extraction protocols. When this goes south—and it will—I want our people out clean." Alexander opened the envelope, scanning the contents. "Jesus."
"That bad?"
"Worse. Schmidt's further along than I thought. He's already begun human trials." Alexander showed Torrio a photograph—bodies twisted by failed enhancement, faces frozen in agony. "He's using prisoners. Political dissidents. Jews from the early camps."
"Bastard," Torrio growled. "Even in my worst days, we had rules. You don't do that to civilians."
"The kind of man we're racing against." Alexander burned the photo. "The kind who'll win if we don't move faster."
"Then we move faster."
"Yeah." Alexander stared at the ashes. "We move faster. And hope we don't become monsters in the process."
"Kid, I've been a monster most of my life," Torrio said quietly. "But there's monsters and there's monsters. We may bend the law till it screams, but we don't do... that."
"No. We don't." Alexander turned to his window, looking out at a city that had no idea what was coming. "But we'll do whatever else it takes."
"Whatever it takes," Torrio agreed. "That's always been the Sterling way."
Alexander nodded. The clock was ticking. Schmidt was moving. The war was coming. And somewhere in Brooklyn, Steve Rogers was probably getting into another fight he couldn't win.
Time to change that. Time to create a symbol.
Time to build Captain America.
God help us all.
Torrio headed for the door, then paused. "Oh, and boss? That British dame asked about you specifically. Not the project. You. Might want to work on your mysterious genius act—it's starting to show cracks."
"Noted," Alexander said. "Any other wisdom from the Chicago school of subtlety?"
"Yeah. When a dame that dangerous starts paying attention to you?" Torrio grinned. "Duck."