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- United States Capitol, Washington D.C.-
- December 18, 1939 — Afternoon -
The chamber of Congress was alive with anticipation. Reporters leaned forward in their press seats, pens ready. Members of the House and Senate filled the great hall, murmuring in low tones as the galleries above swelled with curious citizens, diplomats, and invited guests. The carved wood, the shining brass, and the hush before history—everything seemed to hold its breath.
When Aryan entered, the applause rolled like a wave. He carried himself with calm poise, robes tailored simply but with dignity, his steps unhurried. For many in that room, it was the first time they had seen, in person, the young Samrat of Bharat who had forced an empire to its knees and lifted an ancient nation back onto the world's stage.
He bowed slightly to Roosevelt, who waited at the dais, before taking his place at the lectern. For a moment, Aryan simply rested his hands on the wooden surface, allowing the applause to fade into silence. Then he began.
"Mr. President, honorable members of Congress, and friends of America," he said, his voice steady but warm, "this is not the first time a son of Bharat has stood here in this land. Decades ago, before my country was free, a monk came to your shores. His name was Swami Vivekananda. He carried no army, no wealth, no throne—only the wisdom of our ancient civilization and the courage of his faith. His words, spoken in Chicago, opened a window for millions in this country to see Bharat not as a colony, but as a source of knowledge, of spirituality, of light."
Heads nodded in the chamber. Some had read about the monk; others had even been present in their younger years when his speeches echoed across America.
Aryan continued, "I stand before you today because the seeds he planted took root in both our nations. He inspired many of your thinkers, but he also inspired us—to remember who we were, even in chains."
There was a pause, the weight of history pressing gently into the silence. Then Aryan's tone shifted, softer but more personal.
"Many of you may know that I spent years in this land, as a boy. At fifteen, still hardly more than a child, I finished my studies here, defended my doctorates, and found in America not just recognition, but friendship. Those years taught me much. They showed me that freedom is not just a dream—it is a living principle. And it was with that lesson that I returned home. I returned not as a scholar, but as a servant of my people. And from that moment began the struggle that has now brought me back here, not as a student, but as Samrat of a free Bharat."
The chamber stirred with applause again, a few lawmakers rising briefly to their feet. Aryan's eyes swept across the hall, his expression calm but touched with gratitude.
"Bharat and America are, in many ways, worlds apart," he said. "One is an ancient civilization that has survived invasions, oppression, and centuries of silence. The other is a young nation, bold and restless, a beacon of modern democracy. Yet, we are bound by something deeper. Both of us believe that the freedom and prosperity of our people must stand at the heart of our endeavors. Both of us know that oppression—whether by fascism, colonialism, or tyranny of any kind—cannot be the final word in human history."
He leaned slightly forward, his voice now carrying the rhythm of conviction. "I come to you not asking for charity, nor offering submission, but with an open hand. Let Bharat and America walk together—not as master and subject, nor even as elder and younger, but as partners. As two nations determined to stand for liberty, to share knowledge, to grow in friendship. If we can do that, then the future will not be shaped by war and hunger, but by dignity and cooperation."
For a moment after he stopped, the chamber was still. Then the applause erupted, filling the domed hall, rolling through its arches. Men and women stood, clapping, some cheering openly.
President Roosevelt rose from his seat, his face composed but glowing with satisfaction. He stepped forward as the chamber slowly calmed.
"Ladies and gentlemen of Congress, today we have heard not just a speech, but a reminder of what binds us all. His Majesty, the Samrat of Bharat, has spoken as a friend of America, and as a leader who has already proven his nation's commitment to freedom. For that, we thank him deeply."
Roosevelt let his gaze travel across the room before continuing. "This war that grips Europe is not the last challenge the world will face. Tyranny wears many masks, but freedom always finds its defenders. Today, I am proud to say that America will take a step forward with Bharat. We will formally support their inclusion in the League of Nations—not as a colony, not as a subject people, but as a sovereign equal."
The words broke the chamber open again. Applause thundered as Aryan inclined his head in gratitude, his eyes steady but his lips pressed in a small, restrained smile.
Roosevelt finished, his voice carrying over the sound. "And so long as I sit in this chair, I will hold hope that America and Bharat will stand together—not only against fascism, but against all oppression. Side by side, partners in shaping the future."
The chamber rose once more, a full standing ovation. Some clapped with enthusiasm, some with cautious calculation, but the sound filled the hall nonetheless.
Aryan did not let the triumph wash over him unchecked. He knew applause was easy. What came after—true cooperation, true respect—that would be the real work.
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- New York City, USA -
- December 19, 1939 -
The morning air in New York carried its own kind of rhythm—horns, clattering streetcars, footsteps on icy sidewalks. Snow from the night before had been swept into neat piles at the curbs, though here and there children still kicked at it, their laughter echoing faintly between the tall buildings.
Aryan sat quietly in the backseat of the sleek black car, gazing through the glass at the city that never seemed to pause. His face gave little away, but his mind was busy.
Why extend his hand toward America? Why choose friendship when he knew, better than anyone, how easily Americans wore masks? He remembered all too clearly from his past life—their speeches of freedom while propping up dictatorships, their talk of equality while refusing it to many of their own people, their tendency to treat allies as tools rather than partners. Hypocrisy was not a flaw in their system; it was woven into it.
And yet here he was, returning their handshake.
The answer was simple. Bharat needed it.
Even with all the reforms he had begun back home—the schools, the factories, the land reforms, the new technologies—his nation was still climbing out of centuries of theft and ruin. A strong consumption base had been laid, yes, but manufacturing was still small compared to the West. To outpace them one day, Bharat first needed to catch up. And to catch up, it needed investment, exports, and hard currency—things America had in abundance.
Morality didn't trouble him here. Empires throughout history had bathed themselves in conquest and blood, yet were praised in textbooks for their vision. Compared to them, turning war into profit seemed almost tame. If others could grow rich on the misery of war, why not Bharat? At least his people would eat better, live better, and dream bigger. That was reason enough.
The Allies, desperate and bleeding, would have to turn to him. The Axis, still blind to Bharat's worth, would miss their chance. It was not sentiment—it was timing. And Aryan was nothing if not careful with time.
He leaned back against the leather seat, recalling the message Anaya had shared. The Americans had plans of their own. They wanted to parade something before him today—a machine, an android with flames bursting from its very body. The Human Torch, they called it. A symbol, a warning, a show of strength. Their way of saying: 'Do not think you alone hold the keys to tomorrow.'
Aryan almost laughed aloud, but only the faintest smile touched his lips. Of course they would do this. America never simply welcomed a guest; they measured him, tested him, reminded him they, too, were capable. Typical.
Though a part of him was excited too, he wanted to see this android, the Americans had claimed to have created, for his own scientific curiosity. He didn't know whether or not this Human Torch was a character of Marvel, due to his limited knowledge of deep lores of Marvel universe or any other universe like the Kingsman, that had fused with this world.
Outside, the car slowed as it reached the venue—a towering hotel whose marble pillars rose proudly above the street. Flags lined the entrance, fluttering in the cold wind. Dozens of cars had already arrived, and a stream of businessmen in dark coats and felt hats moved briskly inside. Flashbulbs popped as reporters spotted Aryan's vehicle, shouting questions that blurred into one another.
The door opened. His aide stepped down first, then Aryan followed, adjusting his coat against the chill. Cameras clicked in rapid bursts as he straightened, tall and composed, his expression unreadable but assured.
For a moment, he paused at the foot of the steps, taking in the sight of the crowd, the reporters, the looming hotel, and the banners advertising the "Conference on Global Investment and Trade." He could already feel the weight of the day pressing forward.
This was not just another meeting. This was the marketplace of power—the place where men like Howard Stark and his peers came not to dream, but to deal.
And Aryan had come ready to deal.
He turned, gave a small nod to his entourage, and then walked up the steps into the building, the hum of the city fading behind him.
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