Thanks to the exhibition, this recruitnt center was a bit more entertaining than the ones Steve Rogers had visited before. Not only were there advanced display screens playing promotional videos in the hallways, but there were also various things ant for amusent and photo opportunities.
For instance, there were large photo cutouts with a hole where the character's face would be, allowing people to stick their heads through and take pictures as if they were the character.
But Steve was too short. He watched as others enjoyed taking pictures, laughing as they posed. When he tried, the only thing visible was the tip of his head.
With a sigh, Steve shook his head, collected himself, and continued toward the section where the real recruitnt dical exams took place.
"Many have sacrificed their lives for this. I have no right to do less. I just need a chance to prove myself," he muttered, his eyes filled with determination, as if giving himself a pep talk. His resolve to fight the fascists only grew stronger, never wavering.
Su Ming had told him to simply be himself and stay true to his heart, and that would be enough.
As he moved through the crowd in the hallway, his frail body appeared like a small boat adrift on the vast ocean, yet he remained composed.
Unbeknownst to him, a bald, bespectacled older man, standing a short distance away, had overheard Steve's words. He observed Steve with a satisfied look, his eyes wandering over him in an appraising manner.
A few minutes later, Steve sat in the examination room, nervously waiting for the army doctor to conduct his dical checkup. He had removed his shoes and jacket, sitting on the edge of the bed.
A nurse entered the room, whispering sothing into the doctor's ear.
The doctor nodded, set down his instrunts, and turned to leave. "Wait here," he said.
"What? Did sothing happen?" Steve asked, confused.
"Just wait," the doctor replied without expression as he walked out, the heavy curtain separating Steve from the outside world once again.
Now Steve was starting to panic. His eyes fell on the poster on the wall behind him, which read: *Falsifying recruitnt information is illegal.*
*Have they found out?*
He rembered Bucky's warnings—how he should stop trying to enlist under false identities. Bucky had said that prisons were full of tall, tattooed thugs who liked scrawny, pale guys like him. They'd treat him like their "b*tch," and do all sorts of horrible things...
Steve shuddered, his mind racing. He could already imagine himself being passed around by a group of big guys like a doll in a dark, dreary place.
Desperate, he jumped off the examination bed, scrambling to put his shoes back on. *If this goes south, I'll just have to bolt.* There was no way he could go to prison and beco soone's "b*tch."
Just as he was getting ready to make a run for it, the curtain was pulled aside, and in walked a tall, muscular soldier wearing a white helt. His armband bore the letters "MP"—military police. These were the army's enforcers, responsible for handling illegal activities within the military.
The MP stared at Steve with an expressionless face.
Steve imdiately shrank into himself. He felt dood.
*Goodbye, Bucky. Goodbye, Mr. Wilson. Goodbye, pure and untainted life.*
Just as Steve's mind was spiraling into dark thoughts, the curtain was pulled back once more, and an older man wearing glasses entered the room. He was dressed in a brown suit, with a faded red sweater underneath.
"Thank you," the man said, smiling at the MP. The imposing military policeman said nothing and left the room, much to Steve's relief.
But sothing about the old man's gaze was unsettling. He looked at Steve as though he were a rare treasure.
The older man clasped his hands behind his back, beaming at Steve. "Well then..." he said, pulling out Steve's recruitnt file from behind his back and flipping through it casually. "You want to go overseas and kill so Nazis, is that right?"
Steve was taken aback. While it was a relief that the MP was gone, this older man seed a bit odd.
"Sorry, sir. I don't really understand what you an by that," Steve replied, confused.
The man closed the file and approached Steve, extending his hand. "I'm Dr. Abraham Erskine, from the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
"Steven Rogers," Steve replied politely, shaking the doctor's hand. He was still trying to figure out why this man was here, but at least it seed he wasn't going to prison.
Dr. Erskine nodded and walked a few steps over to a small table, laying the file down. He continued the conversation as if it were just small talk.
"Where are you from?" he asked. Then, adjusting his glasses as if worried Steve might not understand, he added, "I live in Queens, at the corner of 73rd and Utopia Parkway. Before that, I was in Germany. Does that bother you?"
"No, not at all."
"Where are you from, Mr. Rogers? New Haven? Paramus? You've taken five different dical exams in five different cities."
"This file might not be entirely accurate," Steve stamred, squirming slightly in his seat, desperately trying to cover for himself.
Dr. Erskine snapped the file shut. He knew the information was accurate. The Strategic Scientific Reserve's intelligence was always precise.
The long list of dical conditions on the file was real. This sickly young man had indeed tried several tis to enlist, risking prison with each attempt.
"I don't care about the test results," Dr. Erskine said, waving off the file. "I'm more interested in the number—five tis. You tried five tis. Why?"
Steve was at a loss for words. They had all his false records right there—undeniable evidence.
Dr. Erskine walked back over to Steve, staring into his eyes. The young man's gaze didn't show hatred, but sothing was clearly driving him to get to the battlefield.
"You still haven't answered my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?" Dr. Erskine asked.
Steve frowned slightly. "Is this a test?"
"Yes, it is," the doctor responded, observing Steve's face, which looked just as pale as it had under the soft yellow lights of the room.
Steve paused for a mont. By all rights, the answer he should give was, *Yes, I want to kill our enemies.*
Even General Halsey in the Pacific had famously declared, "Kill Japs, kill more Japs, and then kill even more Japs!" He'd even said, "Soon, Japanese will only be spoken in hell."
Such statents were well-loved by the military. After all, the job of soldiers was to kill the enemy.
But those words didn't feel like his answer. His own heart wasn't like that.
He wanted to stop the pain that war brought to people. He wanted to end the war. Maybe he would kill, but only for the sake of a better future.
So, Steve shook his head, choosing his words carefully. He looked directly into the doctor's eyes and gave his honest answer.
"I don't like killing. I don't like bullets, and I don't care where they co from."
Dr. Erskine pressed his lips together, raising his eyebrows in a relaxed expression, though Steve wasn't sure what that ant.
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