December 1941
Steve's pencil dragged across the paper like it was carrying a burden too heavy for its tip. The illustration he was finishing for the Brooklyn Eagle—once a source of pride, a simple way to lift hearts—now felt hollow.
A boy standing in front of a crumbling house.A flag drooping at half-mast in the corner.A shadow of a soldier drawn without a face.
He stared at it for a long time.
His drawings used to bring joy—stories of kindness, of strength, of humor in hard times. Kids would laugh. Neighbors would smile. Mr. Stan used to clip the best ones and hang them up near the register. But lately, all Steve could draw was pain. And he hated it.
It wasn't just the war in Europe anymore.
It was here now.
On the morning of December 7th, 1941, everything changed. Pearl Harbor had been attacked.
The radio had been a constant scream since that day—reports of explosions, of flames on the water, of sailors trapped below decks. The Japanese planes had come with such speed and precision that some officers swore they weren't like anything they'd ever seen. Some said they moved like lightning—others said they dove like ghosts.
Even now, resistance from American and Allied forces in the Pacific was underway, but islands were falling. Territory after territory was being lost. The military was scrambling, unprepared for the sheer ferocity of the assault.
And all Steve could do was sit in a corner of Brooklyn, pencil in hand, watching the world burn from the edges of a newspaper page.
He was walking home from the paper's office when he found Bucky waiting outside Stan's store. Hands in his coat pockets, looking like he hadn't slept.
"You saw?" Bucky asked.
Steve nodded. "Everyone's seen."
They stood in silence for a moment.
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Bucky asked.
Steve looked up. His eyes were tired, but full of fire. "We can't just watch anymore."
Bucky gave a small nod. "Then we go."
They didn't need to say more. The walk back to the Barnes' apartment was quiet, broken only by the distant sounds of the city—radios crackling in windows, church bells ringing, the sound of kids playing in the distance like the war hadn't just come to their front door.
Inside the apartment, George Barnes sat at the dinner table, his hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug. Winnifred was folding laundry nearby. Rebecca, now almost ten, was sketching on the floor with crayons Steve had given her.
Steve and Bucky stood in the doorway.
"We need to talk," Bucky said.
George glanced up. His face was calm, but the years in his eyes grew heavier.
"You want to enlist," he said plainly.
Steve nodded. "We can't sit here while people are being forced to their knees. While homes are being destroyed. We have to do something."
Winnifred set down a folded towel and walked closer. "We knew this day would come."
George leaned back, letting out a long breath. "You know what the front lines are like, Steve. I've seen it. So did your father."
"I know," Steve replied softly. "He told me."
Winnifred looked at Bucky, then at Steve. "You've both got good hearts. But war doesn't care about good hearts."
Steve said nothing. His fists were clenched in his coat pockets.
George looked straight at him. "You might not come back."
"I'd rather not come back than do nothing," Steve said, steady as stone.
George's gaze lingered on Steve now. "You know they might not take you, right?"
Steve's jaw tightened. He looked down.
Bucky stepped in. "We've talked about it. The asthma, the bronchitis, the ribs that never healed right..."
"I'm still going to try," Steve said, cutting in. "No matter how many times it takes."
"And if they say no?" George asked.
"I'll try again. Somewhere else. I don't care if I have to lie about my address. I have to do something."
Winnifred touched his arm. "No one doubts your courage, Steve. But please… don't lose yourself trying to prove you belong."
Steve's voice was quiet. "It's not about proving anything. It's about doing the right thing."
There was silence again. Then—
"Why do you have to go?" Rebecca asked from the floor.
The room turned.
She was holding a crayon drawing—two stick figures in green helmets standing in front of a flag. One labeled "BUCKY." The other "STEVE."
Bucky knelt in front of her, softening his voice. "Because there are people who can't fight for themselves, Becca. And someone has to stand up for them."
"But what if you get hurt?"
He gave her a gentle smile. "Then I'll have done the right thing. And that's worth it."
She didn't cry. She just nodded and hugged him around the neck.
That night, the conversation shifted to lighter tones. They talked about Rebecca's birthday coming up the following week—Steve insisted they'd celebrate it no matter what.
"She wants a cake with lemon frosting," Winnifred said, "and colored candles. No exceptions."
"I'll make the decorations," Steve added. "And she's getting sherbets. That's non-negotiable."
Bucky grinned. "Then we go after that. Let her have her day."
George looked at them both. "If you do this… do it with everything you are. And remember who you are."
Steve nodded. "We will."
Later that night, Steve lay in the small bed he shared with Bucky in the back room, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
He remembered something his mother once told him when he was a little boy. They'd been sitting on the fire escape, watching the streetlights flicker below.
A Memory – Brooklyn, 1927
"You know what I think you'd be good at?" Sarah asked, her arms wrapped around a thin little boy in oversized pajamas.
Steve looked up. "What?"
"A sheriff. Like in the old stories. The kind that protects the weak, chases away the bad men, and brings peace to towns no one else cares about."
Steve beamed. "Like in the dime comics?"
She smiled. "Exactly. But you wouldn't need a horse or a gun. Just your heart."
"Would I get a badge?"
Sarah laughed softly. "You'd have the biggest one of all."
Back in the present, Steve closed his eyes. He could almost feel her arms around him again. Hear her voice.
That was all he ever wanted. Not to be famous. Not to be powerful.
Just to protect.
To be the shield when others couldn't stand.
And now, the world needed one more than ever.