Steve Rogers walked up the main road, his uniform torn and dirty, his shield battered and scarred. But his head was high, his shoulders straight, and he moved with the confidence of a man who had finally found his purpose. Beside him walked Bucky Barnes, alive and grinning despite his ordeal.
But it wasn't just Steve and Bucky. Diana strode alongside them, her armor gleaming in the Italian sunlight, the Godkiller at her side marking her as something far beyond human. Jim Hammond moved with controlled power, small flames dancing around his fingers. Alan Scott's ring cast a soft green glow, his lantern secured at his belt.
Behind them came faces Phillips didn't recognize but could read like an open book—warriors, every one of them. A tall black man in sleek armor that seemed to absorb light. A woman whose every movement spoke of deadly grace. A man with wild hair whose very presence seemed dangerous. Two men in military uniforms who carried themselves like experienced soldiers.
And towering over them all, a mechanical figure that could only be the G.I. Robot, his optical sensors sweeping the camp with obvious satisfaction. Next to him walked another giant, this one flesh and blood, with golden hair and features that seemed almost too perfect to be human. The man stood nearly seven feet tall, making even Steve Rogers look normal-sized by comparison.
Following this impossible group came hundreds of liberated prisoners, men from every Allied nation, their faces gaunt with captivity but blazing with the joy of freedom. They rode in captured HYDRA vehicles, weapons that seemed to glow with their own inner light secured in the back.
The entire camp had stopped what it was doing. Soldiers poured out of tents and barracks, medics rushed forward with stretchers, and a cheer began to build that could probably be heard in Rome.
"Some of these men need medical attention," Steve called out as he approached Phillips, his voice carrying the authority of command.
"Medic, we got wounded," another voice called.
"Right over here," a medic responded, rushing toward the liberated prisoners.
Steve came to attention in front of Phillips and saluted. "Colonel Phillips, sir. I'd like to surrender myself for disciplinary action."
Phillips stared at him for a long moment, taking in the battered shield, the torn uniform, the confident bearing of a man who had finally become what he was meant to be. Around them, soldiers who had booed Steve's performances were now cheering his name.
"That won't be necessary," Phillips said quietly.
"Yes, sir," Steve replied, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
Phillips turned to look at Peggy, who was wiping tears from her eyes. His expression shifted to something approaching contrition.
"Faith, huh?" he said softly.
Phillips' gaze drifted to the golden-haired giant standing quietly at the edge of the group, and his expression shifted to professional curiosity mixed with wariness.
"Rogers," Phillips said, nodding toward Wilhelm. "Who's the big fellow?"
Wilhelm stepped forward with that same gentle bearing he showed everyone, though Phillips could see the careful way he moved, like someone constantly aware of his own strength.
"I'm Wilhelm, sir," he said, his voice deep but soft. "Though I'm afraid I don't know much more than that. I can't remember who I was before... before HYDRA found me."
Phillips studied him with the calculating gaze of a career military officer. "HYDRA prisoner?"
"Not exactly," Wilhelm said, and there was pain in his voice. "They told me I was helping them develop medical treatments for wounded soldiers. They said I was a volunteer, that I'd been injured in an aircraft crash and couldn't remember." He looked down at his hands. "I gave them my blood willingly, thinking I was saving lives. But I found out they were using it to hurt people instead."
"They tricked you," Phillips said, understanding immediately.
"Yes, sir. And I..." Wilhelm's perfect features showed genuine anguish. "I don't know who I really am, or where I came from. But I know what they made me complicit in, even if I didn't understand it at the time." He straightened, his voice growing stronger. "I want to help you fight them. I want to make things right."
Phillips glanced at Steve, who nodded slightly. "He helped us get everyone out, Colonel. HYDRA had been lying to him, manipulating him. When he learned the truth, he chose to help us."
"I see," Phillips said, then looked back at Wilhelm. "And you want to stay? Help us fight HYDRA?"
"If you'll have me, sir," Wilhelm said. "I may not remember my past, but I know the difference between right and wrong. What HYDRA is doing... I need to help stop it. Maybe helping save people will help me figure out who I'm supposed to be."
Phillips nodded slowly. In his experience, the best soldiers were often the ones fighting for redemption. "We'll see what we can do."
Back near the tent, Orion stepped forward as Diana approached, his relief evident despite his diplomatic composure. "Diana, thank the gods you're safe. When we lost contact during the mission..."
"I'm sorry we worried you," Diana said, genuine warmth in her voice. "But everyone made it out. That's what matters."
Mala moved to Diana's other side, her eyes quickly scanning for injuries. "Princess, are you hurt? That battle looked..."
"I'm fine, Mala," Diana said softly, though she unconsciously rolled her shoulder where Ares had struck her. "Tired, but fine. The important thing is that we got them all out."
"All four hundred and twenty-three," Orion said with quiet satisfaction. "Steve Trevor's intelligence was invaluable in coordinating the extraction routes."
In the center of the celebrating crowd, Bucky Barnes was grinning like a man who'd just won the lottery. The weeks of captivity had left their mark, but his spirit was clearly unbroken as he looked around at the soldiers gathering.
Peter Parker stood next to him, already snapping photos with his camera, probably the first pictures he'd taken since his capture. Ted Knight had found someone's radio and was fiddling with it, his Signal Corps training kicking in automatically. Ted Grant just stood there with his arms crossed, looking satisfied in the way only a boxer who'd gone the distance could manage.
Azzuri and Amaya stood together, watching the celebration with the careful attention of people observing a foreign ritual. Both had removed their masks, revealing faces that carried the dignity of true royalty. Logan hung back at the edge of the group, still looking like he might bolt at any second, but his eyes held something that might have been contentment.
Jim Hammond floated a few feet off the ground, his flames turned down to barely visible flickers so he wouldn't spook anyone. Alan Scott stood with his lantern resting against his leg, the green light pulsing in rhythm with the ring on his finger. Jay was still working on what was left of his cake, crumbs scattered down the front of his uniform.
Steve turned to Peggy, and for a moment, the chaos around them seemed to fade into background noise. She was looking at him with an expression he'd never seen before. Not just relief or professional respect, but something deeper. Something that made his heart skip a beat.
"You're late," she said, but her voice was warm with affection rather than reproach.
Steve reached into his pocket and pulled out the Stark transponder, now shot to pieces from their harrowing escape. "Couldn't call my ride."
They stared at each other for a long moment, years of unspoken feelings hanging in the air between them. Then Bucky's voice cut through the moment, loud enough for half the camp to hear:
"Hey! Let's hear it for Captain America and Wonder Woman!"
The roar that went up from the crowd was deafening. These were the same soldiers who'd booed Steve off the stage just days ago, who'd thrown tomatoes and called him names. Now they were screaming themselves hoarse, waving their caps in the air, pounding each other on the back. They'd seen the proof. They knew what these two had done.
But Steve held up his hands, somehow making his voice heard over the noise.
"Hey, hold up!" He waved toward his teammates scattered through the crowd. "Look, this wasn't just me and Diana. You want to cheer for somebody? Cheer for all of them."
He started pointing them out one by one. "Jay Garrick here, we call him the Flash. Guy's so fast he makes lightning look slow, and tonight he proved it. Alan Scott, Green Lantern. That light of his got us through places darker than anything you can imagine. Jim Hammond, the Human Torch. He burned right through everything HYDRA threw at us."
Steve's voice got stronger as he went on. "King Azzuri, the Black Panther, and Queen Amaya, Vixen. Real royalty from Africa who came here to fight alongside regular guys like us. Logan over there, toughest bastard I've ever met, and I've met some tough bastards. Peter Parker and Ted Knight, they kept hope alive for every prisoner in that place when everything looked hopeless."
He spotted Ted Grant near the back. "Ted Grant, they call him Wildcat. Boxing champion who never went down, not once, not even in a HYDRA prison."
The crowd was eating it up, soldiers whistling and shouting names as Steve called them out.
"And Captain Steve Trevor, the flyboy who got us the intel that made this whole thing possible. Wilhelm here, who was strong enough to help us get everyone out when we needed it most. Every damn one of these people could've died tonight, and they knew it. But they came anyway."
Diana moved up beside him, and when she spoke, her voice somehow reached every corner of the camp. "Steve Rogers tells the truth. We fought together, all of us. But I want everyone here to know something." She looked right at Steve. "It was his heart that brought us together. His courage that kept us going when things got bad."
The cheering started up again, but softer now, more personal. Soldiers were shaking hands with the team members, patting shoulders, treating them like real people instead of comic book characters.
Phillips stood back and watched it all. A week ago, he'd been ready to write off Rogers as a washout in a fancy costume. Now he was looking at something he'd never expected to see. An Amazon warrior who moved like poetry and hit like thunder. A guy who could burst into flames without burning up. A kid who could run faster than cars. Actual royalty from places he'd never heard of. A Canadian who looked like he'd been carved out of granite and bad intentions. And a golden-haired giant who'd been manipulated by the enemy but chose to do the right thing when he learned the truth.
And right in the middle of all that impossible, Steve Rogers. Not the dancing monkey from the USO shows, but the real thing. The leader who'd somehow gotten all these extraordinary people to follow him into hell and bring everyone back alive.
Phillips found himself grinning. Hell, maybe they really could win this thing.
—
ALLIED COMMAND HEADQUARTERS, LONDON – NOVEMBER 11TH 1943
The outdoor ceremony had been set up on the manicured grounds behind the Allied command headquarters, with a temporary stage constructed specifically for the occasion. Rows of folding chairs stretched across the carefully maintained lawn, occupied by what Senator Brandt considered the most important people in the European theater. A red carpet led from the main building to the stage, flanked by enough American and British flags to outfit a small parade. Senator Brandt had spared no expense in creating the perfect backdrop for what he was billing as "a historic moment in Allied cooperation." The guest list read like a who's who of wartime politics: influential senators, members of Parliament, high-ranking military officials, and reporters from every major newspaper and radio station from London to New York.
Flash bulbs popped continuously as photographers jockeyed for position, their cameras trained on the ornate podium where Senator Brandt stood in his finest suit, a Bronze Star medal gleaming in its presentation case beside him. The lighting had been carefully arranged to catch every angle, every expression, every moment that would sell newspapers and boost his approval ratings back home.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Senator Brandt began, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of a man who'd given this same speech a hundred times before, "we gather today to honor a true American hero. A man who has proven that the spirit of liberty and justice cannot be contained by enemy lines or deterred by overwhelming odds."
The crowd murmured appreciatively. Several British MPs nodded with diplomatic politeness while American senators checked their pocket watches, already calculating how this photo opportunity would play in their home districts.
"Just yesterday," Brandt continued, warming to his theme, "newspaper headlines across the civilized world proclaimed a miracle. Four hundred Allied prisoners of war, men from Britain, America, France, Poland, soldiers who had been given up for dead, walked free because one man refused to accept the word 'impossible.'"
A reporter in the front row scribbled notes frantically while his photographer adjusted his flash. This was exactly the kind of human interest story that sold papers during wartime.
"That man embodies everything we fight for in this great struggle against tyranny. He represents the courage of the common soldier, the determination of the American spirit, and the unwavering commitment to leave no man behind." Brandt's voice rose with practiced emotion. "He is not just America's champion; he is freedom's champion."
Applause rippled through the audience, though several military officers exchanged glances that suggested they were less impressed with the rhetoric than the politicians seemed to be.
"The Bronze Star for Valor is awarded to those who distinguish themselves by heroic or meritorious achievement in connection with military operations against an armed enemy." Brandt lifted the medal case, holding it high enough for the photographers to capture the moment. "No award could be more fitting for a man who single handedly penetrated enemy territory, destroyed a vital enemy installation, and rescued hundreds of Allied personnel."
A British general leaned over to his aide and whispered, "Single handedly? The intelligence reports mentioned quite a large team involved in that operation."
The aide simply shrugged. "Politicians, sir."
Brandt set the medal case back down and spread his arms wide, his smile reaching maximum wattage. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my distinct honor and personal privilege to present this Bronze Star for Valor to my good friend, a man I've had the pleasure of working with extensively during his bond tour, Captain America!"
He gestured grandly toward the side entrance where a red carpet led from the hallway to the podium. "Captain America! Come forward and accept the recognition you so richly deserve!"
The crowd turned expectantly toward the entrance, cameras ready, pencils poised over notepads. The military band, positioned discreetly behind a cluster of potted plants, prepared to strike up "The Star Spangled Banner."
Nothing happened.
Brandt's smile held steady, though a tiny muscle in his jaw began to twitch. "Captain America! That's your cue, Captain!"
Still nothing. The photographers began to lower their cameras, confusion spreading through the audience like ripples on a pond.
An aide materialized at Brandt's elbow, whispering urgently in his ear. The senator's face went through several interesting color changes as he processed whatever he was being told.
"I... ah... it seems Captain America has been delayed by urgent military business," Brandt announced, his voice lacking its earlier confidence. "As we all know; duty calls at the most unexpected moments."
The crowd began to shift restlessly. Several reporters were already heading for the exits, sensing that the story had just gotten more interesting than a routine medal ceremony.
In the third row, an elderly man with thick glasses, a magnificent mustache, and the unmistakable bearing of someone who'd spent decades in the entertainment industry, leaned over to the decorated general sitting beside him. His voice carried just enough to be heard by nearby guests, delivered with the timing of a natural showman.
"I thought he'd be taller."
The comment sent a ripple of barely suppressed laughter through the audience. Even some of the politicians couldn't hide their smirks as Senator Brandt stood alone at the podium, holding a medal for a hero who apparently had better things to do.
Brandt cleared his throat, his face flushed with embarrassment. "Well, I'm sure Captain America will... we'll arrange for... the medal will be delivered to him personally."
More reporters were filing out now, already composing headlines about the senator who couldn't deliver his star guest. The photographers packed up their equipment, muttering about wasted film and missed deadlines.
The ceremony that was supposed to launch Brandt's presidential ambitions had become a public humiliation. As the crowd dispersed across the lawn, leaving empty chairs and wilted flowers, the senator stood clutching the Bronze Star that no one had bothered to show up and claim.
—
SSR HEADQUARTERS, LONDON – NOVEMBER 12TH 1943
Barrage balloons hung over London, their cables cutting lines through the grey sky. The SSR building rose from the street, windows catching the weak November sun. A newsstand on the corner had headlines: "CAPT. AMERICA TO RECEIVE BRONZE STAR" and "HERO SNUBS SENATOR AT CEREMONY."
Three floors down, in a concrete briefing room, Steve Rogers stood over a map table. His enhanced memory let him recreate every detail from Zola's lab, his pencil moving with mechanical precision as he marked coordinates and facility layouts.
"The fifth one was here in Poland, right near the Baltic," Steve said, marking another spot. "And the sixth one was about here, thirty, forty miles west of the Maginot Line. I just got a quick look."
Peggy Carter watched from beside him, studying the map and Steve's work. There was something different about him now. The uncertainty from his USO days was gone, replaced by quiet authority.
"Well, nobody's perfect," she said with a slight smile.
Steve looked up briefly before returning to the map. "These are the weapon factories we know about. Sergeant Barnes said that Hydra shipped all the parts to another facility that isn't on this map."
At a nearby table covered with technical documents and photographs, a blonde woman in her late twenties worked intently over what appeared to be highly classified intelligence reports. Her sharp blue eyes moved quickly across pages of data, occasionally making notes in the margins with practiced efficiency.
"Agent Carter," the woman called out in a crisp British accent, "these energy signature readings from the Wakandan data are extraordinary. I've never seen anything like the power output measurements King Azzuri recorded."
Peggy turned toward her colleague. "Steve, I'd like you to meet Agent Dinah Drake. She's one of our best intelligence analysts from MI6. I called her in specifically to help decrypt the information King Azzuri provided us."
Dinah stood and extended her hand to Steve, her grip firm and confident. "Captain Rogers. Your mission has provided us with a treasure trove of intelligence. King Azzuri's data download from that HYDRA facility contains research information that's advanced our understanding of their capabilities by months, possibly years."
"What kind of information?" Steve asked, intrigued.
Dinah gestured to the spread of documents before her. "Technical specifications for weapons we didn't even know existed. Organizational charts showing HYDRA's true scope. Supply chain logistics that reveal how they're moving resources across occupied Europe." She picked up a photograph showing complex mechanical components. "And most disturbing, evidence of human experimentation programs that go far beyond what we initially suspected."
Steve examined the photograph, his expression darkening. "Enhanced soldiers?"
"Among other things," Dinah confirmed grimly. "King Azzuri's intelligence suggests they've been attempting to replicate the process that created you, but using fundamentally different methodologies. The results appear to be..." She paused, searching for the right words. "Unpredictable and often fatal."
Peggy moved closer to review the documents. "How much of this intelligence have you been able to verify?"
"Cross-referencing with our existing intelligence files shows remarkable accuracy," Dinah replied, pulling out a thick folder. "King Azzuri's information has helped us identify three HYDRA facilities we had no previous knowledge of, and confirmed the existence of two more we'd suspected but couldn't locate."
Colonel Phillips walked over, his footsteps echoing in the underground space. He'd spent the morning fielding angry calls from Washington about Steve missing the medal ceremony, and his expression showed the strain.
"Agent Drake," Phillips said with a nod of acknowledgment. "What's the assessment on the Wakandan intelligence?"
"Invaluable, sir," Dinah replied immediately. "King Azzuri kept his promise to share what he learned. This data represents the most comprehensive look inside HYDRA operations we've obtained to date."
Phillips studied the documents spread across the table. "And you trust the source?"
"I've spent the past eighteen hours cross-referencing every detail I could verify," Dinah said. "Everything checks out. King Azzuri appears to have provided us with completely accurate intelligence, exactly as he promised Captain Rogers."
Steve felt a surge of respect for Azzuri. The Wakandan king had honored his word completely, sharing advanced intelligence that could significantly aid the Allied war effort.
"Agent Carter, coordinate with MI6," Phillips ordered. "I want every Allied eyeball looking for that main Hydra base. Use Agent Drake's analysis to prioritize our search patterns."
"What about us?" Peggy asked.
Phillips stood across from Steve, the map table between them. "We are going to set a fire under Johann Schmidt's ass." His eyes fixed on Steve. "What do you say, Rogers? It's your map. You think you can wipe Hydra off it?"
Steve felt the weight of every man who had died in HYDRA captivity, every prisoner still behind enemy lines. He straightened.
"Yes, sir. I'll need a team."
"We're already putting together the best men—"
"With all due respect, sir," Steve interrupted, "so am I."
THE WHIP & FIDDLE PUB, LONDON – NIGHT
The pub was loud with conversation and laughter, smoke from cigarettes creating a haze. In one corner, the Howling Commandos had claimed several tables, their voices carrying over the general din as they celebrated their freedom with the enthusiasm of men who'd faced death and lived to drink about it. At another set of tables nearby, Sgt. Rock and his Easy Company boys were doing much the same, though their celebration had a harder edge to it.
Dum Dum Dugan set down his pint hard enough to rattle the table. "So, let's get this straight."
Gabe Jones leaned back in his chair. "We barely got out of there alive, and you want us to go back?"
Steve sat across from them at the table, casually rolling a dart between his fingers. The motion was so smooth and controlled that several people nearby stopped talking to watch his enhanced dexterity.
"Pretty much," Steve replied, setting the dart down.
The Howling Commandos looked at each other with the silent communication of soldiers who'd been through hell together. Finally, James Montgomery Falsworth spoke up, his British accent cutting through the noise.
"Sounds rather fun, actually."
Jim Morita nodded, raising his glass and letting out a loud belch. "I'm in."
Jacques Dernier gestured enthusiastically. "Je combattrai jusqu'à ce que le dernier de ces bâtards soit mort, enchaîné ou bien qu'il pleure comme un nouveau-né!"(I'll fight until the last of these bastards is dead, chained, or crying like a newborn!)
Gabe Jones laughed. "J'espère tous les trois!"(I hope for all three!)Then, seeing the confused faces around the table, he translated. "Oh, uh, we're in."