[May 1940 - Sterling Enterprises Advanced Research Division]
The primate's screams harmonized with the whir of machinery in a symphony that would haunt lesser men's dreams. Alexander Sterling watched through reinforced glass as Subject 19—a chimpanzee they'd named Roosevelt after a particularly heated argument with Phillips—thrashed against titanium restraints that groaned like they were reconsidering their career choices.
"Vitals are spiking," Howard called out, sweat beading on his forehead as he adjusted dials that looked like they'd been stolen from a mad scientist's garage sale. "Heart rate two-forty and climbing. Brain activity is... Jesus Christ, is that even possible?"
"With the serum? Everything's possible." Alexander kept his voice level despite the knot in his stomach. "Including spectacular failure. Erskine, how's cellular cohesion?"
"Degrading," the doctor replied, his German accent thickening with stress. "The enhancement is working but the body cannot maintain—"
Roosevelt's eyes suddenly focused with an intelligence that didn't belong in any primate's gaze. For one terrifying moment, Alexander could have sworn the chimp was calculating escape vectors. Then the convulsions started.
"Stabilization failing!" Howard's hands flew across controls. "The vibranium resonance is fluctuating—"
"Compensate with the Vita-Rays. Frequency seven-point-two." Alexander moved closer to the glass, watching muscles bulge and contract in patterns that defied biology. "Come on, you beautiful disaster. Hold together."
"It's not enough," Erskine said quietly. "We're still breaking them."
Twenty minutes. That's how long Roosevelt lasted before his enhanced metabolism burned through itself like a Ferrari engine running on rocket fuel. Twenty minutes of impossible strength, heightened intelligence, and then—
The silence afterward was deafening.
"Well," Alexander said into the quiet, "at least he didn't write a manifesto about overthrowing humanity. That's progress."
"Progress?" Erskine rounded on him, eyes blazing. "We just watched another creature die in agony for our ambitions!"
"No, we watched another creature die because we're not fast enough." Alexander pulled off his lab coat with sharp movements. "Schmidt's not agonizing over lab mice, Doctor. He's injecting prisoners and calling it racial purification."
"And that makes us better?"
"That makes us necessary." Alexander moved to the control panel, already calculating adjustments. "Howard, can you stabilize the Vita-Ray frequency?"
"Give me a week," Howard muttered, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. "Maybe two. The resonance patterns are—"
"We don't have two weeks." Alexander cut him off. "We have until Schmidt succeeds. After that, we're playing catch-up to a madman with a god complex and government backing."
The radio in the corner crackled to life, a tinny voice announcing German tanks rolling through Belgium. The war that had been theoretical was becoming very real, very fast.
"We need human trials," Alexander said into the silence that followed.
"Absolutely not," Erskine snapped. "The formula isn't ready—"
"The formula will never be ready enough for your standards, Doctor. Perfect is the enemy of good enough." Alexander turned to face them both. "We're close. You know we are. The primates are lasting longer, showing more stable enhancement. One more iteration—"
"Could kill the subject just as easily as enhance them," Erskine finished.
"Yes. Which is why we ask for volunteers. Full disclosure. Let them choose."
"Choose to die as your guinea pigs?"
"Choose to maybe become something more than human, or definitely die as cannon fodder in France." Alexander's voice hardened. "At least our way gives them a chance at survival."
Howard stubbed out his cigarette. "I hate it when you make sense."
"I have that effect on people." Alexander gathered the trial data. "One week, Howard. Stabilize the Vita-Rays. Erskine, refine the serum. Focus on the metabolic regulators. We're burning them out from the inside."
"And you?" Erskine asked, disapproval radiating from every pore.
"I'm going to find us volunteers who understand the stakes." Alexander headed for the door. "Oh, and have maintenance incinerate Roosevelt properly. He deserves that much respect."
"He deserved not to die in our chamber," Erskine called after him.
Alexander paused at the threshold. "He deserved a lot of things, Doctor. So do the millions who'll die if Schmidt succeeds first. Sometimes we have to choose which guilt we can live with."
He left before Erskine could respond. Some arguments weren't worth winning.
[SSR Temporary Office, New York - Same Day]
Margaret "Peggy" Carter had seen many impossible things in her career but Alexander Sterling's dossier made all of them look mundane.
"Graduated high school at fourteen," she murmured, reading by lamplight in her cramped office. "Bachelor's in Biological Sciences from Columbia. Masters in Genetics by 1930 with a thesis on Genetic Basis of Heredity and Mutation. PhD. in Genetics by 1934 with a dissertation hypothesizing on..." She paused, rereading the line. "DNA's role as the key molecule in heredity."
The academic achievements alone would have been impressive. Combined with the financial records, they painted a picture that shouldn't exist.
"Shorted the market perfectly in 1929. Turned sixty thousand dollars into over a hundred million through 'strategic investments.'" She made air quotes at the empty room. "Controls eighty-seven percent of Sterling Enterprises, thirty percent of Stark Industries. Net worth: Unknown but extensive."
Then there were the Nobel Prizes. 1933, shared with Alexander Fleming for demonstrating penicillin's curative properties. 1938, solo, for describing DNA's structure—work so advanced that universities were still trying to replicate it.
"No one's this good," she muttered, flipping to the section on known associates. "Not without help."
And what help he'd assembled. Johnny Torrio, former Chicago Outfit boss, now CEO of Strategic Operations. Alphonse Capone, the Alphonse Capone, running Midwest distribution. Vincent "Vinnie" Russo, bootlegger turned executive, handling "special projects" that included vibranium smuggling.
"Criminals," she said aloud. "He's built an empire on criminal expertise wrapped in corporate legitimacy."
The family section was almost touching. Parents, Joseph and Natalia Sterling, residing in luxury apartments in Sterling Tower. Monthly allowance that exceeded most annual salaries. Regular dinners, documented by building security. A son taking care of his parents.
"Even monsters love their mothers," Peggy murmured, then caught herself. Monster was too strong. Probably.
She reached for her phone, dialing from memory.
"Phillips."
"Colonel, it's Carter. I've reviewed the Sterling dossier."
"And?"
"And he's either the luckiest genius in history or something else entirely."
"Define 'something else.'"
Peggy stared at the photo clipped to the file—Alexander Sterling, looking too young for his achievements and too knowing for his age. "I'm not certain yet. But I intend to find out."
"Don't push too hard, Carter. We need him."
"We need what he can provide," she corrected. "That's not the same as needing him."
"It is right now. Schmidt's accelerating his program. Intelligence says he's already moved to human trials."
"Then Sterling was right about the timeline."
"Sterling's been right about everything. That's what worries me." Phillips paused. "Watch him, Carter. But carefully. Men like that notice when they're being watched."
"I'll be subtle."
"You'd better be. Phillips out."
Peggy hung up, returning to the dossier. Something nagged at her—a pattern she couldn't quite identify. Sterling's predictions weren't just accurate; they were precise. As if he'd seen the future rather than predicted it.
"Impossible," she said firmly. But in her line of work, impossible was just another word for classified.
[Sterling Enterprises - Later That Evening]
Alexander was reviewing serum formulations when Peggy entered without knocking. He'd been expecting her—the security desk had called up her arrival, and he'd deliberately left the door unlocked.
"Agent Carter. Come to check my homework?"
"In a manner of speaking." She moved into the room with the controlled grace of someone who knew seventeen ways to kill with office supplies. "Fascinating reading, your dossier."
"I live to entertain." Alexander didn't look up from his calculations. "Though I suspect 'fascinating' is British for 'suspicious as hell.'"
"Your command of British idiom is impressive." She settled into the chair across from him, uninvited. "Almost as impressive as your ability to predict market crashes with surgical precision."
Now he looked up, meeting her gaze with practiced calm. "I had good mentors. And better instincts."
"Mentors." She smiled, the expression sharp enough to cut glass. "Would those be the academic mentors who couldn't understand your work, or the criminal mentors you've employed throughout your organization?"
"Why not both? Diversification is key to any portfolio."
"You were a student when you made those trades. Most men your age were chasing skirts, not stocks."
"I've always been ahead of the curve, Agent Carter." Alexander leaned back, projecting casual confidence. "Jealous?"
"Curious." She produced a folder—his published papers. "Your DNA work was and still is breaking new ground. Your financial moves bordered on precognition. Your recruitment of exactly the right criminals for legitimate business..." She paused. "One might think you had access to information others didn't."
"One might think a lot of things. Thinking and proving are different beasts entirely."
"I don't need to prove anything. I just need to understand what we're dealing with."
"What you're dealing with," Alexander said carefully, "is a man who sees patterns others miss and acts on them while others hesitate. Nothing more mysterious than that."
"Patterns." She tested the word like wine. "Is that what you call it?"
"What would you call it?"
"I haven't decided yet." She stood, smoothing her skirt. "The primate trial this morning. Another failure?"
"Another learning experience. We're close."
"Close to what, exactly? Creating super soldiers or playing God?"
"In my experience, the two aren't mutually exclusive." Alexander returned to his calculations. "Was there something specific you needed, Agent Carter? Or is this a social call?"
"I don't make social calls to men I'm investigating."
"Pity. I make excellent tea."
Despite herself, she almost smiled. "I'm sure you do. One more question—how does a man with your background end up employing half of organized crime?"
"Reformed organized crime," Alexander corrected. "And the answer's simple—they're very good at what they do. Legal or illegal, logistics is logistics. Networks are networks. The only difference is paperwork."
"That's a rather amoral view."
"That's a practical view. Morality is a luxury for people not trying to prevent Nazi super soldiers."
She studied him for a long moment. "You're not what I expected, Dr. Sterling."
"Let me guess—you expected a war profiteer with delusions of grandeur?"
"I expected someone easier to read." She moved to the door. "I'll be watching your progress closely."
"I'd be disappointed if you weren't."
She paused at the threshold. "Your parents live in Sterling Tower. The penthouse suite."
Alexander's shoulders tensed minutely. "They do."
"You take care of them. Generously."
"Family is important."
"Even for amoral pragmatists?"
"Especially for amoral pragmatists. We so rarely have anyone else who understands us."
She left without another word, but her message was clear—she'd found a pressure point and wanted him to know it.
Hopefully the war comes fast enough that she has bigger problems than my impossible success rate, Alexander thought.
[Brooklyn, Corner of Flatbush and DeKalb - Same Night]
Three blocks from Sterling Enterprises, in an alley that smelled like garbage and broken dreams, Steve Rogers was getting his ass kicked. Again.
"Should've minded your own business, punk," the larger man growled, landing another punch that sent Steve sprawling.
"I could do this all day," Steve wheezed, struggling back to his feet with the determination of someone too stupid to stay down.
The beating continued with mechanical precision—bullies, Steve had learned, were nothing if not predictable. But predictable didn't mean survivable.
"Hey!" A new voice cut through the night. "What the hell you think you're doing?"
The bullies scattered like roaches when the light comes on, leaving Steve to slump against the alley wall. His rescuer was a young man in an expensive suit, clearly lost from whatever fancy party he'd been attending.
"You okay, kid?" The man helped Steve to his feet.
"I'm fine," Steve lied through split lips. "Had worse."
"Yeah? Well, maybe try having less." The man studied him with oddly knowing eyes. "You always pick fights with guys twice your size?"
"They were hassling a lady."
"Course they were." The man sighed. "Look, there's a clinic two blocks over. Let them check you out."
"Can't afford it."
The man pressed something into Steve's hand—a business card and a twenty-dollar bill. "Tell them Alexander Sterling sent you. They'll take care of you."
Before Steve could protest, the man was gone, leaving only the echo of expensive shoes on wet pavement.
Steve looked at the card: Sterling Enterprises Medical Division - Executive Volunteer Program.
He pocketed it with the money. Tomorrow, he'd check it out. Tonight, he just needed to make it home without bleeding on his landlady's carpet again.
Executive Volunteer Program, he thought, limping toward home. Wonder what that's about.
[Sterling Tower - Alexander's Office]
Alexander returned to find Torrio waiting with a folder that radiated bad news.
"Berlin report," the old gangster said without preamble. "You're gonna want to sit down for this."
Alexander took the folder, scanning quickly. His blood chilled with each paragraph.
"Schmidt's latest subject survived the enhancement," he said slowly. "But—"
"But he killed three guards and destroyed half the lab before the crazy bastard finally died," Torrio finished. "Turns out Schmidt's not using Erskine's research anymore. He's got some other egghead—Zola—cooking up alternatives."
"Arnim Zola." Alexander closed the folder, mind racing. "He's approaching it from a different angle. Less elegant than Erskine, more brute force."
"Whatever angle he's using, it's working. Sort of." Torrio poured himself a drink. "Also, word is Schmidt knows we lifted some of his research. He's not happy."
"Good. Angry people make mistakes."
"They also make war, boss. And this guy's got the resources of the Third Reich behind him."
Alexander moved to his window, looking out at a city that had no idea what was coming. "He's not building soldiers. He's building monsters. The kind that don't care about collateral damage or chain of command."
"While we're trying to build... what exactly?"
"The same thing, but with better PR." Alexander turned back. "Double security on all facilities. If Schmidt's making moves, he might try to return the favor on our intelligence gathering."
"Already done. Also, that British dame was asking about you down in archives. The kind of asking that sounds casual but isn't."
"Peggy Carter doesn't do casual. She's hunting."
"For what?"
"The truth about me. Which she can't find because it doesn't exist in any file." Alexander smiled grimly. Hard to investigate someone who's lived two lives when the paperwork only shows one.
"Boss, sometimes the way you talk..." Torrio shook his head. "Never mind. You want me to handle her?"
"No. Let her hunt. The more time she spends investigating my past, the less she spends interfering with my future." Alexander returned to his desk. "Besides, I find her interest... flattering."
"That's a dangerous game with a dangerous dame."
"All the best games are dangerous, Johnny. Otherwise, what's the point?"
Torrio left, muttering about young men and death wishes. Alexander remained, staring at Schmidt's research. The Red Skull was moving faster than he remembered, adapting quicker. The timeline was shifting, and not in his favor.
Time to accelerate everything, he thought. Human trials within the month. Volunteers who understand the risks.
He thought of the skinny kid in the alley, all heart and no sense. Steve Rogers, future Captain America, getting his ass kicked on schedule. Some things, at least, remained constant.
"Soon, Steve," Alexander murmured to the night. "Soon you'll get your chance to be more than you are. And God help us all when you do."
The phone rang. Howard, probably, with another complication. Or Erskine with another moral objection. Or Phillips with another demand. The work never ended when you were trying to save the world while profiting from its destruction.
Alexander answered on the third ring. "Sterling."
"It's Peggy Carter. I'm reviewing your volunteer recruitment protocols. We need to talk."
"Agent Carter, it's nearly midnight."
"Evil doesn't keep business hours, Dr. Sterling. Neither do I."
He smiled despite himself. "Your place or mine?"
"My office. Twenty minutes. Don't be late."
The line went dead. Alexander grabbed his coat, already calculating what she'd found and how to spin it. Peggy Carter was becoming a complication he couldn't afford.
Which was why, he admitted to himself as he headed for the door, he found her so damn interesting.
Dangerous game indeed, Johnny. But what's life without a little danger?
Besides, he thought as he entered the elevator, I've already died once. How much worse could it get?
The universe, as always, took that as a challenge.