<Snipped quote by King Kindred>
Because taking on too much never goes well for these games.
That, and my posts are usually long, so... yeah lol
Mao Mao
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That, and my posts are usually long, so... yeah lol
Okay, after a day off and two days of brainstorming ideas for either TMNT or Genosha, I am honestly stuck on picking one because I like both rough concepts that I came up with equally. I'd like to hear your thoughts and see how well they align with the overall story. Based on the feedback, I will select one concept to focus on. If you don't mind, you can review my incredibly rough draft of ideas below.
Republic of Genosha
Republic of Genosha
Republic of Genosha
"A green and pleasant land for all."
C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R P O R T R A I T  _________________________________________________________ C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y _________________________________________________________C H A R A C T E R S U M M A R Y | Magneto | _________________________________________________________ | Interim President | Acolytes | _________________________________________________________ | Hammer Bay | Genosha | C H A R A C T E R N O T E S C H A R A C T E R N O T E S N O T A B L E A T T R I B U T E S N O T A B L E A T T R I B U T E S | C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T C H A R A C T E R C O N C E P T Charles Xavier's dream of assimilation and coexistence was always a foolish, naive notion conceived by a desperate man seeking answers. And when it was put to the test, humankind revealed its true colors in a hideous manner their thoughts of the dream. But ever such the idealist, Xavier never faltered for his dream. His closest friend disagreed and began sharing a more realistic dream, one of subjection to mutantkind as a means to pave the way for the next stage of evolution: the Homo superior. And when it was also put to the test, it not only saw grand-scale devastation but also gave humans ammunition to further spread prejudice about mutants. He realized right then and there that his dream had a fatal flaw. Magneto left his previous life behind him in order to find the solution to that flaw. Unlike Xavier, though, he didn't have a manor or the wealth and influence to preach to a wider audience. Nevertheless, that did not stop him from trying; he just did it underground, and it too was a success. A small group of mutants across America banded together as a means of survival and then formed a brotherhood. This brotherhood, inspired by Magento's teachings, began to engage in armed resistance against anti-mutant sentiment. Admittedly intrigued, Magento sought them out with the intention to assist discreetly. But to his surprise, the group composed of young, frightened adults decided to make him their leader out of sheer desperation. Sympathetic to their plight, Magneto accepted the role. For three years, the Brotherhood conducted a series of attacks concentrated on anti-mutant organizations, activists, and politicians. One of their first acts was the assassination attempt on Reverend William Stryker, a rising anti-mutant activist, before his Sunday sermon. Fortunately for him, the X-Men foiled the attack at the last minute. It marked the beginning of the animosity between the two groups and their leaders that naturally escalated. But then Magento recognized how his disciples were indirectly reharshening the very problem that caused him to question his dream. Therefore, he thought the best course of action to resolve it was to hold a meeting with everyone to explore potential solutions. Only a few hours in it, and Magento found it entirely futile enough to leave them behind. That marked the beginning of his self-imposed isolation from the world, as he sought to recontextualize his dream. The time alone made him acknowledge how outright violence and conquest would've ultimately led to the persecution and then genocide of all mutants. So, a different dream was introduced, one where mutantkind must make use of its gift for the sole purpose of survival. Only through formidable might would humankind accept mutants, albeit begrudgingly, to prevent mutual assured destruction. And after three years of formulating his newfound thoughts, Magneto self-published his book and swiftly denounced his old dream soon after. Then afterward, he chose to remain hidden from the world, so as to recuperate after decades of nonstop action. The world, however, kept on spinning. Magneto was assumed dead and soon became a myth. But a few knew the truth. Amelia Voght was one of them, the only other person who was in his old life. That was how she tracked him down with a hunch. But it became immediately apparent she wasn't just there to check on him. Relations between humans and mutants have deteriorated to their lowest point, with tensions getting dangerously close to a boiling point. This wasn't news to him, nor a surprise in all honesty. What surprised him was that she wasn't alone—seven complete strangers were waiting outside for them. Amelia explained how, in a world where uncertainty is weaponized, only an assertive mutantkind can survive and possibly thrive. She chose to come out of hiding and stand with other mutants who were willing to fight, to die, for that future. All that remained was for her to convince him to lead again. Magneto, however, didn't need convincing to help out an old friend. He met his acolytes, who immediately pledged to follow his principles with fervor. It admittedly gave him a sense of déjà vu, reminiscent of the Brotherhood's beginnings. Each one of them was willing to follow him into the depths of hell for their own reasons. But they all shared a common goal: to protect their fellow mutants from extinction. Magneto was able to work with that. Genosha was an apartheid technocratic island state located off the coast of Africa that had become one of the fastest-growing countries in the world. David Moreau, the billionaire geneticist turned president, transformed his nation by diversifying its economy and investing in artificial intelligence. All of that, along with a Hollywood-style global marketing campaign, persuaded the international community to lift sanctions placed there in response to its apartheid policies. Then, the truth was revealed. The administration gradually transferred its powers and responsibilities to an artificial intelligence, becoming the world's first algorithmic republic. The younger population, already resistant to the apartheid system, called for a student protest across the country in response to the revelation. Magneto used it as an opportunity to further existing unrest among the non-white and mutant population affected by apartheid with the help of his Acolytes. A general strike was then called with demands for the government to dismantle the AI, step down, and hold a new presidential election. That increased tensions between the amassing protesters and the state police, who were particularly known for their brutality. But before it escalated to a rebellion, Magneto personally interfered to prevent further bloodshed. It took him only an hour to depose the government, as most of its officials and Moreau had already fled the country. An interim government was needed after the collapse, and much of the population backed Magento as interim president. He was caught off guard when they chose him instead of someone else, and initially, he wasn't sure if he could even lead an entire state, even with help. But whether purposely or coincidentally, it was the only opportunity for his dream to be fully realized. And he took it, marking a new chapter for the Republic of Genosha. P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) P L O T ( S ) & G O A L ( S ) It has been a long while since I have written nations, and this game has given me a chance to experience it again. Plus, I love Genosha so much that I wrote a paper about it for my X-Men class while pursuing my bachelor's. And I get to write about Magento again, so it's a win-win. The major inspirations so far are Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker, The Phantom Pain, and 4, as well as the depiction of Genosha in X-Men 97. So expect it to be a political thriller with action mixed in. The basis is simply how a ragtag group of radical misfits comes together to form a nation in defiance of a world that doesn't want them to even exist. And of course, I welcome any interaction with other mutant characters within and beyond the confines of Genosha. Magento is someone who usually gets his hands dirty, so don't be surprised if he ends up in the states for one reason or another. |
Well, that just happened.
Guys, hear me out, I have a really scaled-up Danny The Street sheet idea.
I actually planned on doing Danny the Street at first, but it didn't really fit with the vibe of the overarching story, while Krakoa felt out of place with so many year-one heroes, if I'm being honest. Additionally, there are not many media outlets that explore Genosha beyond its eventual fall.
But if I am actually able to submit a sheet for the turtles, I will drop whatever I had planned and write one up lol
@Half Pint, how would you feel if I played as a nation (it would be a newly-formed Genosha) instead of a character?
My dream and hope of playing the turtles once more were foiled before they even flourished.
I love being a recent grad in the year 2025 means basically nothing in this job market :)
Also, sorry for the radio silence. Had to move back in with my folks while struggling to find any work, lmao. And the post turned out to be rather long (oops). So yeah, my bad.
Also, sorry for the radio silence. Had to move back in with my folks while struggling to find any work, lmao. And the post turned out to be rather long (oops). So yeah, my bad.
C A P T A I N A M E R I C A
C A P T A I N A M E R I C A
C A P T A I N A M E R I C A
"Glory to our great people, the people victorious!
Eternal glory to the heroes who fell in the struggle against the enemy
and gave their lives for the freedom and happiness of our people!"
- Joseph Stalin
Eternal glory to the heroes who fell in the struggle against the enemy
and gave their lives for the freedom and happiness of our people!"
- Joseph Stalin
???
BRAVE NEW WORLD
The first sound Steve hears is a vibrant swell of trombones and trumpets from a nearby radio. Then, the infectious sounds of cheering and laughter coming from a few rooms over. As his eyes open gradually, he takes in his surroundings, slowly coming to the realization he's in a room. He pushes himself up in the bed and finds the other beds empty, recently made and pressed. His gaze drifts to the window on the far side of the room with a view of the outside world, set against a backdrop of farmland framed against the gray sky. Light rain taps rhythmically against the glass, which strangely complements the tail end of the music from the radio. Just then, a thick English accent crackles through the speaker, bursting with excitement.
"Celebrations continue across the country as thousands rejoice at the end of the Nazi war machine! Here in London, jubilant crowds have flocked to Buckingham Palace, their joy palpable with every glimpse of the royal family on the balcony. So far, they have appeared three times throughout the day, each occasion igniting waves of cheer from the masses. Over at Piccadilly, servicemen and civilians are merrymaking in such a collective manner not seen in a long while. And there are also reports that some individuals have taken a dip in the fountains at Trafalgar Square. With the pubs and dance halls promising to stay open all night long, it is quite evident that the party is only just getting started on V-E Day!"
As another lively tune begins to play, Steve absorbs the news in absolute silence, his heart swelling with a profound sense of contentment. The war is finally over, Europe has been liberated from fascist oppression, and justice can finally be served against those who orchestrated atrocities against the innocent. This moment, this feeling, is nothing short of euphoric. Then, he looks at the empty bed across from him and his heart sinks. Bucky should be here with him, celebrating by his side, not dead with no body to bury. A part of him foolishly hopes he might have gone to the bathroom or gone to the raucous party down the hall. But no, Bucky... is dead, killed in action. There is no way of denying it, nor praying he walks through the door to greet him with that sweet smile of his. Steve understands that, but it doesn't stop his thoughts from inevitably retracing every second on that damn plane.
It is so painfully fresh in his mind, etched in like a nightmare.
He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to ground himself amidst the whirlwind of sorrow and pain. Steve cannot afford to grieve at this moment; this isn't the time nor the place for it. Not until he understands where he is and what has happened to the rest of his unit. So he takes a deep breath, tosses the blanket aside, and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. He gathers his strength and hops off. And if not for the metal bed frame, he would have tumbled face-first onto the floor. It's admittedly surprising how agile he feels after intentionally crashing the plane into the ocean. He had honestly braced himself for far worse. A soft chuckle escapes him, the miracles of the serum playing their part once more.
But just as he's about to take another step, a sudden gasp halts him in his tracks. He looks up and sees a nurse standing in the doorway, her eyes wide in disbelief. She quickly composes herself, smoothing her curly hair while colorful confetti falls to the floor, and rushes over to help. Steve lifts a hand to halt her approach, mustering a reassuring smile as he steadies himself against the bed frame with the other.
"Sorry for startling you, ma'am," he says, relieved and slightly astonished to still be standing upright.
"Are you alright? I heard- Oh!" A doctor appears, equally taken aback by the sight of his patient awake and on his feet. He strides toward them, adjusting his tie with a look of disbelief. "You're up—standing no less! H-how are you feeling?"
Steve doesn't know how to answer. He's in an unfamiliar place, with no clue how long he's been unconscious. It could have been weeks or even months since the assault on the research facility. The whereabouts of the Howlers, the rest of his squad, weigh heavily on his mind; for all he knows, they could be dead too, just like… No. Fury won't allow that to happen, not without a damn good reason. For all Steve knows, he and the others are probably still out there in Eastern Germany celebrating this 'V-E Day' alongside the Soviets. He clings to that desperate hope. He needs to because he's not sure he can bear any more loss. He already got his childhood friend killed, after all. The guilt would consume him whole.
Steve clears his throat and manages to say, "A bit thirsty."
"It would surprise me if you weren't," the doctor says and then turns to the nurse. "Get him some water and food, preferably some mashed potatoes to be safe."
The nurse nods, still shocked, and makes her way out of the room while seeming to tuck her hair behind her ear. But just as she slips out of view, Steve notices a subtle movement. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees her quickly insert something that looks like an earplug into her ear before vanishing from the room. That puts him on alert, which the doctor quickly picks up on. "Everything alright?" he asks sincerely out of concern.
Steve meets his gaze and forces out a smile while saying, "I'm fine."
The doctor, seemingly reassured, decides to begin a rather thorough physical examination. Steve complies, but the unease still lingers, causing him to further examine his surroundings. The radio is now playing classical music, and the party outside remains as lively as ever. All seems well, normal even. Then, he glances over to the window to see if the rain has let up. It hasn't, but that's when he notices something so tiny yet uncanny among the clouds. A black square. At first, he thinks it's his mind still adjusting to waking up, but with every blink, it remains. Before being able to grasp this bizarre sight, the doctor's deliberate cough snaps him back to reality.
"Are you sure you're okay?" the doctor probes again, lowering the clipboard.
Steve rubs his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath. "Must be my head playing tricks, but I swear I just saw something peculiar in the sky."
"Could very well be the case. I don't mind taking a peek, though," the doctor offers with a smile before heading towards the window to investigate. Steve begins to note all of the discrepancies now made apparent. The music from the radio sounds unnaturally clear, with the radio itself being immaculate. The noise from the party outside, the laughter and chatter, feels almost mechanical, as if on repeat. Not to mention the earplug the nurse used. He looks back at the doctor to see if he's doing anything else. But so far, he's just searching around. Then, for a split second, his pupils dilate as if he sees the square. And yet his face remains unreadable; instead, he deftly scribbles something down on the clipboard. "I didn't find anything strange," he states, his tone gentle, "As you have alluded to, your mind is simply just grappling with hallucinations that many patients encounter after enduring... challenging experiences like yours. This will pass within a day, at worst."
Steve struggles to trust him, even though the information makes total sense. The secrecy surrounding everything is quite tiresome to maneuver in his current state. So, just this one time, he decides to stop playing along and rip the band-aid off.
"Where are we?" he asks bluntly.
"Odstock Hospital, near Salisbury," the doctor replies while getting ready to continue the exam. "It's a quaint village that-"
But before he can finish, Steve pushes himself off the bed in frustration, surprising the doctor. "No—where are we really?"
The doctor nervously chuckles, now clearly confused. "I.. I don't understand."
In one swift motion, Steve snatches the clipboard from his grip and skims through the pages, each glimpse of its contents only raises more questions that would have to go unanswered for now. As the doctor's pleas quickly morph into threats of calling security, the urgency to wrap up heightens. Then, he stumbles upon a hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the second-to-last page: 'fix dead pixel at right corner. patient spots it.'
The black square is supposedly a 'dead pixel,' a term he has never heard before in his life. But why would the doctor bother to mention this? It isn't like anyone else is... Steve suddenly feels the urge to run as far as possible from this place. So he acts on his instinct by hurling the clipboard at the doctor, the edge of it striking him squarely in the face. Seizing the chance, Steve bolts past him, only to crash headlong into the nurse in the hallway. They both tumbled to the ground, sending her tray of mashed potatoes to the floor and shattering the glass of water. The dazed nurse looks at him and tries to ask if he's alright. But Steve, fueled by adrenaline, doesn't wait for her to start and springs back to his feet.
Ignoring the frantic shouts of the nurse pleading for him to stop, he charges toward the double doors. He has little idea of what awaits him on the other side, but he's more than ready to adapt to any situation. But instead of a stairway, he finds himself in a desolate room that resembles a warehouse. Steve staggers around the back of the makeshift set, trying his hardest not to freak out. He sees another double door in the distance ahead and makes a beeline for it.
As Steve flings the doors open with all his might, he abruptly finds himself surrounded by at least a dozen people. They aren't all armed, but could easily hold their own if it came to that. One of them, a man in a trench coat and sporting an eye patch, makes his way through the crowd rather nonchalantly, as if he anticipated this. He lowers a man's baton before staring at him in restrained awe, a look Steve has faced countless times before, whether from seasoned generals or bewildered civilians. But he's doing an impressive job of showing restraint as he turns to the man and admonishes him, "Put that away, agent. No need for theatrics anymore."
He walks toward Steve and extends a hand in greeting, a gesture of peace amidst the standoff, "Corporal Nicholas Fury."
"Celebrations continue across the country as thousands rejoice at the end of the Nazi war machine! Here in London, jubilant crowds have flocked to Buckingham Palace, their joy palpable with every glimpse of the royal family on the balcony. So far, they have appeared three times throughout the day, each occasion igniting waves of cheer from the masses. Over at Piccadilly, servicemen and civilians are merrymaking in such a collective manner not seen in a long while. And there are also reports that some individuals have taken a dip in the fountains at Trafalgar Square. With the pubs and dance halls promising to stay open all night long, it is quite evident that the party is only just getting started on V-E Day!"
As another lively tune begins to play, Steve absorbs the news in absolute silence, his heart swelling with a profound sense of contentment. The war is finally over, Europe has been liberated from fascist oppression, and justice can finally be served against those who orchestrated atrocities against the innocent. This moment, this feeling, is nothing short of euphoric. Then, he looks at the empty bed across from him and his heart sinks. Bucky should be here with him, celebrating by his side, not dead with no body to bury. A part of him foolishly hopes he might have gone to the bathroom or gone to the raucous party down the hall. But no, Bucky... is dead, killed in action. There is no way of denying it, nor praying he walks through the door to greet him with that sweet smile of his. Steve understands that, but it doesn't stop his thoughts from inevitably retracing every second on that damn plane.
It is so painfully fresh in his mind, etched in like a nightmare.
He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to ground himself amidst the whirlwind of sorrow and pain. Steve cannot afford to grieve at this moment; this isn't the time nor the place for it. Not until he understands where he is and what has happened to the rest of his unit. So he takes a deep breath, tosses the blanket aside, and swings his feet over the edge of the bed. He gathers his strength and hops off. And if not for the metal bed frame, he would have tumbled face-first onto the floor. It's admittedly surprising how agile he feels after intentionally crashing the plane into the ocean. He had honestly braced himself for far worse. A soft chuckle escapes him, the miracles of the serum playing their part once more.
But just as he's about to take another step, a sudden gasp halts him in his tracks. He looks up and sees a nurse standing in the doorway, her eyes wide in disbelief. She quickly composes herself, smoothing her curly hair while colorful confetti falls to the floor, and rushes over to help. Steve lifts a hand to halt her approach, mustering a reassuring smile as he steadies himself against the bed frame with the other.
"Sorry for startling you, ma'am," he says, relieved and slightly astonished to still be standing upright.
"Are you alright? I heard- Oh!" A doctor appears, equally taken aback by the sight of his patient awake and on his feet. He strides toward them, adjusting his tie with a look of disbelief. "You're up—standing no less! H-how are you feeling?"
Steve doesn't know how to answer. He's in an unfamiliar place, with no clue how long he's been unconscious. It could have been weeks or even months since the assault on the research facility. The whereabouts of the Howlers, the rest of his squad, weigh heavily on his mind; for all he knows, they could be dead too, just like… No. Fury won't allow that to happen, not without a damn good reason. For all Steve knows, he and the others are probably still out there in Eastern Germany celebrating this 'V-E Day' alongside the Soviets. He clings to that desperate hope. He needs to because he's not sure he can bear any more loss. He already got his childhood friend killed, after all. The guilt would consume him whole.
Steve clears his throat and manages to say, "A bit thirsty."
"It would surprise me if you weren't," the doctor says and then turns to the nurse. "Get him some water and food, preferably some mashed potatoes to be safe."
The nurse nods, still shocked, and makes her way out of the room while seeming to tuck her hair behind her ear. But just as she slips out of view, Steve notices a subtle movement. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve sees her quickly insert something that looks like an earplug into her ear before vanishing from the room. That puts him on alert, which the doctor quickly picks up on. "Everything alright?" he asks sincerely out of concern.
Steve meets his gaze and forces out a smile while saying, "I'm fine."
The doctor, seemingly reassured, decides to begin a rather thorough physical examination. Steve complies, but the unease still lingers, causing him to further examine his surroundings. The radio is now playing classical music, and the party outside remains as lively as ever. All seems well, normal even. Then, he glances over to the window to see if the rain has let up. It hasn't, but that's when he notices something so tiny yet uncanny among the clouds. A black square. At first, he thinks it's his mind still adjusting to waking up, but with every blink, it remains. Before being able to grasp this bizarre sight, the doctor's deliberate cough snaps him back to reality.
"Are you sure you're okay?" the doctor probes again, lowering the clipboard.
Steve rubs his eyes, drawing in a steadying breath. "Must be my head playing tricks, but I swear I just saw something peculiar in the sky."
"Could very well be the case. I don't mind taking a peek, though," the doctor offers with a smile before heading towards the window to investigate. Steve begins to note all of the discrepancies now made apparent. The music from the radio sounds unnaturally clear, with the radio itself being immaculate. The noise from the party outside, the laughter and chatter, feels almost mechanical, as if on repeat. Not to mention the earplug the nurse used. He looks back at the doctor to see if he's doing anything else. But so far, he's just searching around. Then, for a split second, his pupils dilate as if he sees the square. And yet his face remains unreadable; instead, he deftly scribbles something down on the clipboard. "I didn't find anything strange," he states, his tone gentle, "As you have alluded to, your mind is simply just grappling with hallucinations that many patients encounter after enduring... challenging experiences like yours. This will pass within a day, at worst."
Steve struggles to trust him, even though the information makes total sense. The secrecy surrounding everything is quite tiresome to maneuver in his current state. So, just this one time, he decides to stop playing along and rip the band-aid off.
"Where are we?" he asks bluntly.
"Odstock Hospital, near Salisbury," the doctor replies while getting ready to continue the exam. "It's a quaint village that-"
But before he can finish, Steve pushes himself off the bed in frustration, surprising the doctor. "No—where are we really?"
The doctor nervously chuckles, now clearly confused. "I.. I don't understand."
In one swift motion, Steve snatches the clipboard from his grip and skims through the pages, each glimpse of its contents only raises more questions that would have to go unanswered for now. As the doctor's pleas quickly morph into threats of calling security, the urgency to wrap up heightens. Then, he stumbles upon a hastily scrawled note at the bottom of the second-to-last page: 'fix dead pixel at right corner. patient spots it.'
The black square is supposedly a 'dead pixel,' a term he has never heard before in his life. But why would the doctor bother to mention this? It isn't like anyone else is... Steve suddenly feels the urge to run as far as possible from this place. So he acts on his instinct by hurling the clipboard at the doctor, the edge of it striking him squarely in the face. Seizing the chance, Steve bolts past him, only to crash headlong into the nurse in the hallway. They both tumbled to the ground, sending her tray of mashed potatoes to the floor and shattering the glass of water. The dazed nurse looks at him and tries to ask if he's alright. But Steve, fueled by adrenaline, doesn't wait for her to start and springs back to his feet.
Ignoring the frantic shouts of the nurse pleading for him to stop, he charges toward the double doors. He has little idea of what awaits him on the other side, but he's more than ready to adapt to any situation. But instead of a stairway, he finds himself in a desolate room that resembles a warehouse. Steve staggers around the back of the makeshift set, trying his hardest not to freak out. He sees another double door in the distance ahead and makes a beeline for it.
As Steve flings the doors open with all his might, he abruptly finds himself surrounded by at least a dozen people. They aren't all armed, but could easily hold their own if it came to that. One of them, a man in a trench coat and sporting an eye patch, makes his way through the crowd rather nonchalantly, as if he anticipated this. He lowers a man's baton before staring at him in restrained awe, a look Steve has faced countless times before, whether from seasoned generals or bewildered civilians. But he's doing an impressive job of showing restraint as he turns to the man and admonishes him, "Put that away, agent. No need for theatrics anymore."
He walks toward Steve and extends a hand in greeting, a gesture of peace amidst the standoff, "Corporal Nicholas Fury."
C A P T A I N A M E R I C A
C A P T A I N A M E R I C A
C A P T A I N A M E R I C A
"My friends, we must toughen up. We have our homes and our lands to defend now.
We must remain cool and yet determined. We are aware of the danger ahead but unafraid."
- Fiorello H. LaGuardia
We must remain cool and yet determined. We are aware of the danger ahead but unafraid."
- Fiorello H. LaGuardia
MANHATTAN, 1941
INTERMISSION
"Roberts, Carl."
The army doctor called out and then escorted the gentleman through the door to get his exam results and likely receive the I-A classification, making him eligible to serve his country. The waiting room of the induction center was still filled with eager men like Carl. Many of them would have heard about the attack on Pearl Harbor long before the president's speech to Congress, all eager to avenge it. An hour after the declaration of war was signed, the center had become a magnet for the restless; a line circled the building and extended down Whitehall Street for a block and a half. Each and every man there had their reasons for volunteering to enlist, but it all stemmed from a sense of patriotic duty to protect their country.
"Robinson, Edgar."
Steve Rogers was one of those men who understood what had to be done long before Pearl Harbor. For three long years, he watched newsreels, read headlines, and listened to radio broadcasts detailing the brutal German occupation of Europe and the harrowing struggles faced by those who dared to resist. Steve knew then what was at stake and the cost of inaction in the face of fascism. He would have enlisted sooner if not for one glaring obstacle that held him back: his health. Even now, he heard the hushed, sneering remarks about his frail body and the laughter of men with much stronger bodies. Steve learned a long time ago not only to accept his imperfections but also to actively push himself. Daily Dozen exercises, swimming twice a week, and working tirelessly as a busser at his neighborhood restaurant all became part of his routine. There were, admittedly, moments when his body was so exhausted that he considered giving up, and he would have if not for-
"They still haven't called you up?" Bucky Barnes, his close friend, asked as he slid into the seat next to Steve.
That... that was not right. Steve distinctly remembered an officer telling Bucky to leave the waiting room because he had gotten his exam results. Instead of leaving, he opted to wait in the hallway; his stubbornness caused the irritated officer to lose his patience and leave him be. But even he wasn't going to push his luck any further. Yet here he was, casually nonchalant and sitting out in the open. That would have been enough for Steve to realize that something was off if not for the fact that no one noticed or cared. Then, the doctor came back and continued to call out names, not once lifting his gaze from the list in front of him.
"Roe, Joseph."
Steve's attention was momentarily drawn to a newspaper lying abandoned on the wooden chair beside him. He glanced over, but the words were gibberish, swirled together in a jumbled mess that was utterly unreadable. At that moment, the realization hit him hard. "Have I been dreaming?" he asked, looking directly at Bucky for some kind of response. Steve got one with a simple nod out of him and then ran his trembling fingers through his short blond hair and whispered, "Why?"
"Don't ask me. It's your mind." Bucky pulled out a stick of juicy fruit-favored chewing gum, his favorite. As he began to chew, the loud smacking echoed through the room, drawing annoyed glances from the other men. But they did nothing else, probably lost in their own thoughts. For Steve, he had grown accustomed to it over the years, and it didn't distract him from thinking up any reason he'd be unconscious. But there was none.
Bucky's brow furrowed. "You've already thrown in the towel?"
"Not at all." Steve pushed himself up from the chair, feeling the air thicken with an unexpected warmth. "Just thinking. That's all," he replied, walking towards the closed window. He wrestled with the bottom rail before it budged with a sudden ease he hadn't expected. As the fresh air flowed in, he glanced down at his arms, now noticeably more muscular than ever before. Just as he was about to examine himself further, Bucky abruptly appeared at his side, his gaze fixed intently on the line wrapped around the building below. He was wearing his Howling Commandos uniform, mostly army-issued gear with personal touches here and there. However, what stood out to Steve the most was how strikingly mature he looked.
"Look at them, men eager to serve their country in its hour of need. Did any of them even consider what that meant before volunteering? Or were they that blind to their own mortality?" Bucky mused, then turned to Steve, his arms crossed thoughtfully. "You weren't, though. You lost that illusion when you were only seven, almost dying of smallpox in that crowded hospital. It left you frail, yes, but it made you more appreciative of life. Why else would Abraham have chosen you for the serum instead of someone like Hodge, who was seemingly superior in every way possible? Why would your comrades follow you into the heart of Nazi-occupied Europe? Why am I here, standing with you in your head?"
A smirk crept onto Steve's face. "Because you're my subconscious?"
"Very funny, wise-ass." Bucky rolled his eyes, giving Steve a playful nudge on the shoulder. They shared a moment of silence, appreciative of the brief peace they rarely got. Steve knew this was all a dream he would soon forget upon waking up, but for now, he was grateful that his friend was by his side. Then, the cool breeze suddenly became a chilling gust as the doctor stepped into the room, now outfitted for combat. He cast a quick glance at his clipboard and declared with authority:
"Barnes, James."
Bucky let out a resigned sigh and made his way toward the wide-open door, letting in... snow? "I was hoping for a little more time," he muttered, his breath visible in the chill. Confused, Steve hurried to catch up, wanting to ask what he meant, but Bucky stopped short of the doorway and turned back to his friend, his entire demeanor strangely somber. One of his hands was trembling slightly around his pistol, but Bucky masked it quite well from his friend, appearing uncharacteristically serene.
"Steven," he said, his voice steady yet burdened with unspoken emotions, "listen to me. No matter what happens, please don't go and blame yourself. There was nothing more you could've done."
Steve let out a soft, confused chuckle. "What are you-"
Abruptly, he was shoved to the ground as two gunshots rang out. Bucky staggered towards the door, but in a last act of defiance, he fired a single shot that found its mark effectively. He had always been a good shot. But Steve could only watch in horror as Bucky dropped his pistol, and blood began to drip onto the floor. Bucky, who had always seemed invincible from schoolyard brawls to battlefields, was just human, after all, like everyone else.
"BUCKY!" Steve screamed, desperately sprinting towards Buck, who had fallen through the doorway. A chilling splash rippled across the room before the door slammed shut with a finality. He refused—couldn't accept it. He yanked on the door handle with all his might, praying the hinges would give way. But even with the newfound strength coursing through him from the serum, it wasn't enough. It was never enough. Steve pounded on the door out of sheer frustration, his eyes starting to tear up. He was Captain America, a hero to his fellow soldiers and a liberator to civilians. He had saved countless lives throughout the war with ease. But when it came to the ones he cherished—Arn, Baker Company, Batroc, Serafina, and now Bucky—why couldn't he save them? Steve crumpled to his knees and succumbed to grief, not caring that the bitter chill was seeping into his bones. He remained there for what felt like hours, unconcerned about footsteps approaching from behind.
"Rogers, Steven." A sharp voice cut through the haze.
Steve turned and saw a general clad in his summer uniform, hands behind his back. His face was unrecognizable to him, but the sense of authority felt eerily familiar. "Get up. Your country still needs you," he commanded but was met with silence instead. Steve didn't care about him or his orders; he had watched his close friend die for him. The General just grunted under his breath and walked toward the door, opening it with ease that surprised Steve, who got up from the floor and began wiping away the tears. The General stood in front of the door and dictated with such arrogance that it reminded Steve of the other generals and officers who only treated him as a propaganda tool, not an actual person.
"Your friend paid the ultimate price so that freedom prevails. He didn't ask for this war, but he accepted the fight, knowing damn well it doesn't end till the free world stands triumphant. Don't let his sacrifice be in vain and do your part."
But Steve barely registered the words and pushed past him as he stepped through the doorway, finding himself inside... a cockpit? It was inching closer to the icy water below at a slow pace. He spun around to ask The General about Bucky's whereabouts, but he simply saluted and swung the door shut. In that instant, the descent quickened at an alarming rate. With urgency, Steve dove into the pilot's seat and instinctively gripped the control wheel, knowing full well what to do. However, instead of pulling back to gain altitude, he thrust the wheel forward impulsively. He was baffled as to why he had done that and only watched in terror as the cockpit hurtled toward the water's surface.
It was only when the frigid depths swallowed him whole that the answer came to him in a single word: containment. Then he woke up.
The army doctor called out and then escorted the gentleman through the door to get his exam results and likely receive the I-A classification, making him eligible to serve his country. The waiting room of the induction center was still filled with eager men like Carl. Many of them would have heard about the attack on Pearl Harbor long before the president's speech to Congress, all eager to avenge it. An hour after the declaration of war was signed, the center had become a magnet for the restless; a line circled the building and extended down Whitehall Street for a block and a half. Each and every man there had their reasons for volunteering to enlist, but it all stemmed from a sense of patriotic duty to protect their country.
"Robinson, Edgar."
Steve Rogers was one of those men who understood what had to be done long before Pearl Harbor. For three long years, he watched newsreels, read headlines, and listened to radio broadcasts detailing the brutal German occupation of Europe and the harrowing struggles faced by those who dared to resist. Steve knew then what was at stake and the cost of inaction in the face of fascism. He would have enlisted sooner if not for one glaring obstacle that held him back: his health. Even now, he heard the hushed, sneering remarks about his frail body and the laughter of men with much stronger bodies. Steve learned a long time ago not only to accept his imperfections but also to actively push himself. Daily Dozen exercises, swimming twice a week, and working tirelessly as a busser at his neighborhood restaurant all became part of his routine. There were, admittedly, moments when his body was so exhausted that he considered giving up, and he would have if not for-
"They still haven't called you up?" Bucky Barnes, his close friend, asked as he slid into the seat next to Steve.
That... that was not right. Steve distinctly remembered an officer telling Bucky to leave the waiting room because he had gotten his exam results. Instead of leaving, he opted to wait in the hallway; his stubbornness caused the irritated officer to lose his patience and leave him be. But even he wasn't going to push his luck any further. Yet here he was, casually nonchalant and sitting out in the open. That would have been enough for Steve to realize that something was off if not for the fact that no one noticed or cared. Then, the doctor came back and continued to call out names, not once lifting his gaze from the list in front of him.
"Roe, Joseph."
Steve's attention was momentarily drawn to a newspaper lying abandoned on the wooden chair beside him. He glanced over, but the words were gibberish, swirled together in a jumbled mess that was utterly unreadable. At that moment, the realization hit him hard. "Have I been dreaming?" he asked, looking directly at Bucky for some kind of response. Steve got one with a simple nod out of him and then ran his trembling fingers through his short blond hair and whispered, "Why?"
"Don't ask me. It's your mind." Bucky pulled out a stick of juicy fruit-favored chewing gum, his favorite. As he began to chew, the loud smacking echoed through the room, drawing annoyed glances from the other men. But they did nothing else, probably lost in their own thoughts. For Steve, he had grown accustomed to it over the years, and it didn't distract him from thinking up any reason he'd be unconscious. But there was none.
Bucky's brow furrowed. "You've already thrown in the towel?"
"Not at all." Steve pushed himself up from the chair, feeling the air thicken with an unexpected warmth. "Just thinking. That's all," he replied, walking towards the closed window. He wrestled with the bottom rail before it budged with a sudden ease he hadn't expected. As the fresh air flowed in, he glanced down at his arms, now noticeably more muscular than ever before. Just as he was about to examine himself further, Bucky abruptly appeared at his side, his gaze fixed intently on the line wrapped around the building below. He was wearing his Howling Commandos uniform, mostly army-issued gear with personal touches here and there. However, what stood out to Steve the most was how strikingly mature he looked.
"Look at them, men eager to serve their country in its hour of need. Did any of them even consider what that meant before volunteering? Or were they that blind to their own mortality?" Bucky mused, then turned to Steve, his arms crossed thoughtfully. "You weren't, though. You lost that illusion when you were only seven, almost dying of smallpox in that crowded hospital. It left you frail, yes, but it made you more appreciative of life. Why else would Abraham have chosen you for the serum instead of someone like Hodge, who was seemingly superior in every way possible? Why would your comrades follow you into the heart of Nazi-occupied Europe? Why am I here, standing with you in your head?"
A smirk crept onto Steve's face. "Because you're my subconscious?"
"Very funny, wise-ass." Bucky rolled his eyes, giving Steve a playful nudge on the shoulder. They shared a moment of silence, appreciative of the brief peace they rarely got. Steve knew this was all a dream he would soon forget upon waking up, but for now, he was grateful that his friend was by his side. Then, the cool breeze suddenly became a chilling gust as the doctor stepped into the room, now outfitted for combat. He cast a quick glance at his clipboard and declared with authority:
"Barnes, James."
Bucky let out a resigned sigh and made his way toward the wide-open door, letting in... snow? "I was hoping for a little more time," he muttered, his breath visible in the chill. Confused, Steve hurried to catch up, wanting to ask what he meant, but Bucky stopped short of the doorway and turned back to his friend, his entire demeanor strangely somber. One of his hands was trembling slightly around his pistol, but Bucky masked it quite well from his friend, appearing uncharacteristically serene.
"Steven," he said, his voice steady yet burdened with unspoken emotions, "listen to me. No matter what happens, please don't go and blame yourself. There was nothing more you could've done."
Steve let out a soft, confused chuckle. "What are you-"
Abruptly, he was shoved to the ground as two gunshots rang out. Bucky staggered towards the door, but in a last act of defiance, he fired a single shot that found its mark effectively. He had always been a good shot. But Steve could only watch in horror as Bucky dropped his pistol, and blood began to drip onto the floor. Bucky, who had always seemed invincible from schoolyard brawls to battlefields, was just human, after all, like everyone else.
"BUCKY!" Steve screamed, desperately sprinting towards Buck, who had fallen through the doorway. A chilling splash rippled across the room before the door slammed shut with a finality. He refused—couldn't accept it. He yanked on the door handle with all his might, praying the hinges would give way. But even with the newfound strength coursing through him from the serum, it wasn't enough. It was never enough. Steve pounded on the door out of sheer frustration, his eyes starting to tear up. He was Captain America, a hero to his fellow soldiers and a liberator to civilians. He had saved countless lives throughout the war with ease. But when it came to the ones he cherished—Arn, Baker Company, Batroc, Serafina, and now Bucky—why couldn't he save them? Steve crumpled to his knees and succumbed to grief, not caring that the bitter chill was seeping into his bones. He remained there for what felt like hours, unconcerned about footsteps approaching from behind.
"Rogers, Steven." A sharp voice cut through the haze.
Steve turned and saw a general clad in his summer uniform, hands behind his back. His face was unrecognizable to him, but the sense of authority felt eerily familiar. "Get up. Your country still needs you," he commanded but was met with silence instead. Steve didn't care about him or his orders; he had watched his close friend die for him. The General just grunted under his breath and walked toward the door, opening it with ease that surprised Steve, who got up from the floor and began wiping away the tears. The General stood in front of the door and dictated with such arrogance that it reminded Steve of the other generals and officers who only treated him as a propaganda tool, not an actual person.
"Your friend paid the ultimate price so that freedom prevails. He didn't ask for this war, but he accepted the fight, knowing damn well it doesn't end till the free world stands triumphant. Don't let his sacrifice be in vain and do your part."
But Steve barely registered the words and pushed past him as he stepped through the doorway, finding himself inside... a cockpit? It was inching closer to the icy water below at a slow pace. He spun around to ask The General about Bucky's whereabouts, but he simply saluted and swung the door shut. In that instant, the descent quickened at an alarming rate. With urgency, Steve dove into the pilot's seat and instinctively gripped the control wheel, knowing full well what to do. However, instead of pulling back to gain altitude, he thrust the wheel forward impulsively. He was baffled as to why he had done that and only watched in terror as the cockpit hurtled toward the water's surface.
It was only when the frigid depths swallowed him whole that the answer came to him in a single word: containment. Then he woke up.
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