ENLISTMENT OFFICE, BAYONNE, N.J. - JUNE 1943
The enlistment center buzzed with nervous energy. Five rows of metal folding chairs were filled with young men in various states of undress, most down to their undershirts and trousers while they waited for their names to be called. The scent of antiseptic and sweat hung in the air, punctuated by the occasional cough or whispered conversation.
Steve Rogers sat uncomfortably in the third row, his bony shoulders hunched forward as he scanned the newspaper in his hands. The headline screamed in bold type: "ELITE NAZI FORCES OVERRUN NORWEGIAN TOWN." Below it, smaller headlines announced, "U-BOATS TORPEDO SHIP OFF COAST OF VIRGINIA" and "NAZIS BURN CZECH VILLAGE TO THE GROUND."
His heart sank further with each word. People were dying by the thousands an ocean away, and here he was, trying for the fifth time to convince someone to let him help.
"O'Connell, Michael," called the examiner's monotone voice from the front of the room.
A burly young man two seats down from Steve stood, folding his newspaper and handing it to the skinny kid next to him—Peter Parker, who'd struck up a conversation with Steve while they waited. Parker was tall but lanky, with an earnest face and wire-rimmed glasses that kept sliding down his nose.
O'Connell strutted toward the examination room, confidence in every step. Steve watched him go with a mixture of envy and determination. How many of these guys had already been accepted at their first try? Steve was on his fifth attempt, and in his fifth city no less. Bayonne, New Jersey wasn't exactly around the corner from Brooklyn.
"Kaminsky, Henry," the examiner called next.
Another young man rose from his seat, this one shorter but powerfully built. He tossed his newspaper onto the chair, glancing down at Peter and Steve as he passed.
"Boy, a lot of guys getting killed over there," Peter remarked quietly, adjusting his glasses as he glanced at the discarded paper's headlines.
Henry Kaminsky paused, looking back at them. "Kind of makes you think twice about enlisting, huh?"
Steve met his eyes steadily. "Nope."
Kaminsky shrugged and continued toward the examination room.
Peter smiled at Steve's response. "My dad said the same thing back in '17. Never thought twice about enlisting, even with a wife and baby at home."
"Your father fought in the Great War?" Steve asked, his interest piqued.
"107th Infantry," Peter replied with unmistakable pride. "Richard Parker. Made it back, thankfully, though he lost most of his hearing in his left ear from artillery fire."
Steve's eyes widened. "My father was in the 107th too. Joseph Rogers."
"No kidding?" Peter extended his hand with newfound enthusiasm. "Dad used to talk about a Rogers. Said he was one of the bravest men in the unit. Carried three wounded men through mustard gas to safety."
"That sounds like him," Steve said softly, shaking Peter's hand. "He didn't make it home. The gas got him."
Peter's expression sobered. "I'm sorry. Dad lost a lot of friends over there. Still visits some of their families when he can."
"Is he still in New York?"
"Queens. Has a photography studio there now—Parker's Portraits." Peter smiled. "He taught me everything I know about cameras. I was helping run the place until this whole war broke out." He tapped his chest. "Now I'm just trying to follow in his footsteps. Though so far, no luck."
"Medical issues?" Steve asked sympathetically.
"Heart murmur," Peter confirmed. "Nothing that bothers me day-to-day, but enough to make them stamp that damn 4F on my papers twice already. What about you? First time trying?"
Steve hesitated. "Not exactly."
Understanding dawned on Peter's face. "Ah. Persistent. I like that."
"Rogers, Steven," the examiner's voice called out.
Steve's stomach tightened. He handed his newspaper to Peter and stood, trying to appear taller than his five-foot-four frame. "Wish me luck," he said.
"You got this," Peter encouraged, giving him a thumbs-up. "For the 107th."
"For the 107th," Steve echoed, squaring his narrow shoulders.
Steve walked toward the examination room, passing a newly approved recruit who marched out with a proud grin, clutching his 1A classification card. The sight only strengthened Steve's resolve. His father had been brave enough to face mustard gas in the trenches of France. The least Steve could do was face another rejection with dignity.
Inside the examination room, a weary-looking Army doctor gestured for Steve to sit on the examination table. The paper covering it crinkled loudly as Steve hoisted himself up, his feet dangling inches above the floor. The doctor picked up Steve's file—thin in physical pages but thick with medical notations—and began to flip through it.
"Rogers... What did your father die of?" the doctor asked without looking up.
"Mustard gas," Steve answered promptly, sitting up straighter. He had rehearsed this conversation four times before in other recruitment centers, but his voice still carried the unmistakable note of pride. "He was in the 107th Infantry. I was hoping I could be assigned—"
"Your mother?" the doctor interrupted, continuing to scan the file.
This question always stung a little more. Steve swallowed before answering. "She was a nurse in a TB ward. Got hit. Couldn't shake it."
The unspoken truth hung between them—tuberculosis was a death sentence, slow and cruel. His mother had fought it for nearly two years before finally succumbing. Steve had been seventeen, suddenly alone in the world except for Bucky and his family, who'd helped him get on his feet.
The doctor continued reading, his eyebrows climbing steadily higher as he noted the litany of health conditions listed in the file: asthma, scarlet fever, rheumatic fever, sinusitis, chronic or frequent colds, high blood pressure, palpitation or pounding in heart, easy fatigability, heart trouble, nervous trouble of any sort, has had household contact with tuberculosis, parent/sibling with diabetes or cancer...
The list went on, filling the medical history form with checkmarks. Steve watched the doctor's face, recognizing the familiar expression of disbelief followed by dismissal. He'd seen it four times before.
"Sorry, son," the doctor finally said, looking up at Steve with what might have been genuine regret.
"Look, just give me a chance," Steve pleaded, leaning forward earnestly. "I know I'm not the biggest guy around, but there are plenty of ways I can help. Not everyone needs to be on the front lines."
The doctor shook his head. "You'd be ineligible on your asthma alone. Factor in the rest of it..." He gestured at the file with his pen. "You wouldn't last a week in basic training."
Steve clenched his jaw, frustration burning behind his eyes. "Is there anything you can do?"
"I'm doing it," the doctor answered firmly. "I'm saving your life."
With finality, he reached for the rubber stamp on his desk. Steve watched, heart sinking, as the doctor pressed it firmly onto his application. The ink was still wet, glistening in the shape of the dreaded classification: 4F. Physically unfit for service in the United States Armed Forces.
Steve stared at those two characters—one number, one letter—that somehow defined everything the system thought about him. Too frail. Too weak. Not enough.
The doctor handed him back the stamped form with a sympathetic nod. "Next," he called out, already looking past Steve to the door.
Outside in the waiting area, Steve found Peter still sitting in his chair, now reading Steve's discarded newspaper. He looked up expectantly as Steve approached.
"No luck?" Peter asked, noting Steve's crestfallen expression.
Steve held up the rejection form, the 4F stamp like a scarlet letter. "Fifth time's the charm, maybe."
"Fifth?" Peter's eyebrows shot up. "You've tried five times?"
"Different cities," Steve admitted, sinking back into his seat. "It's not exactly... allowed."
Instead of the judgment or amusement Steve expected, Peter's face showed nothing but admiration. "Now that's what I call dedication. You're really your father's son, aren't you?"
"I'm trying to be," Steve said quietly. "Sometimes it feels like I got nothing from him except his stubbornness."
"That's not a bad quality to have," Peter offered. "My dad says the stubbornness of the 107th was what kept half of them alive in the trenches."
"Parker, Peter," called the examiner.
Peter stood, straightening his glasses nervously. "Here goes nothing. Third time's the charm, right?"
"Good luck," Steve offered. "Maybe one of us will get through."
While Peter was gone, Steve watched more young men enter and exit the examination room. Most emerged with triumphant smiles, clutching their 1A classifications. A few wore the same disappointment Steve felt, their rejections fresh and raw.
Fifteen minutes later, Peter returned, his own 4F form in hand. He dropped heavily into the chair beside Steve.
"Heart murmur?" Steve asked.
"And flat feet, apparently," Peter added with a rueful smile. "Dad's going to be relieved, though he won't admit it. Mom's already lost one brother to this war."
Steve nodded sympathetically. "My friend Bucky ships out tomorrow with the 107th. At least someone's carrying on the family tradition."
"The famous Bucky," Peter grinned. "You mentioned him earlier. Childhood friend?"
"The best," Steve confirmed. "Joined up right after Pearl Harbor. Got his sergeant's stripes last month."
"He must be proud of you, trying so hard to join up."
"He thinks I'm crazy," Steve said with a small laugh. "Keeps telling me there are other ways to serve. Working in factories, selling war bonds... sensible stuff."
"But sensible isn't the Rogers way, is it?" Peter observed shrewdly.
"Not according to my mother," Steve admitted. "She always said I got all of my father's courage and none of his common sense."
They shared a laugh, two young men bound by their fathers' shared history and their own current frustrations.
"Say," Peter said suddenly, reaching into his pocket for a small notebook. "I'm meeting some friends tonight at this science exhibition—Stark's showing off some new flying car. You should come along. Might take your mind off things."
"Actually, I'm meeting my friend Bucky tonight," Steve said. "Before he ships out."
"Bring him too," Peter suggested, scribbling something on a page before tearing it out. "It's at the World Exposition of Tomorrow. Can't miss it." He handed the paper to Steve. "That's my number at the studio if you want to meet up beforehand."
Steve took the paper, feeling a genuine smile form for the first time that day. "Thanks, Parker. I might just do that."
"Call me Pete," Peter insisted, standing and extending his hand again. "Any son of Joseph Rogers is a friend in my book. Our dads would've wanted us to stick together."
"Call me Steve," he replied, shaking Peter's hand firmly. "And thanks... for understanding about all this."
"You'll find a way in," Peter said with conviction. "Guys like you always do. And when you get to Europe, you tell those Nazis that Peter Parker said hello."
As they parted ways outside the recruitment center, Steve carefully tucked Peter's information into his pocket. The rejection form he crumpled and tossed into a nearby trash can. The 4F stamp wouldn't be the last word on Steven Rogers' military career—not if he had anything to say about it.
—
MOVIE THEATER, BROOKLYN - Afternoon
Steve slumped in his seat at the darkened theater, the rejected enlistment form heavy in his pocket. The Movietone News logo faded, replaced by footage of German troops marching through occupied towns, swastika flags fluttering ominously.
"War continues to ravage Europe," the announcer declared over images of bombed-out buildings. "But help is on the way. Every able-bodied young man is lining up to serve his country."
The scene shifted to show lines of men outside recruitment centers—men nothing like Steve, with their broad shoulders and confident smiles.
"Even little Timmy is doing his part collecting scrap metal," the announcer continued as footage showed a boy pulling a wagon filled with pots and pans. "Nice work, Timmy!"
"Who cares?" a gruff voice called out from behind Steve. "Play the movie already!"
Steve tensed, glancing across the aisle where a young woman sat dabbing at her eyes. The gold star pin on her collar told him she'd already lost someone to the war.
"Hey, you wanna show some respect?" Steve called back, keeping his voice low but firm.
The newsreel continued. "Meanwhile, overseas, our brave boys are showing the Axis powers that the price of freedom is never too high." American soldiers marched through muddy fields, smiling bravely for the camera despite their bandages.
"Let's go!" the same voice shouted, louder now. "Get on with it! Hey, just start the cartoon!"
The disruption was clearly upsetting the gold star woman and an elderly Jewish couple nearby.
"Hey, you wanna shut up?" Steve said, turning fully to confront the heckler.
The theater darkened momentarily, then brightened to show Allied forces marching alongside tanks. "Together with Allied forces, we'll face any threat, no matter the size," the announcer proclaimed.
Steve could now see the heckler clearly—a burly man with meaty fists and an alcohol-flushed face. The man glared back, rising slightly to reveal his considerable size.
As a preview for Walt Disney's upcoming animated feature "Bambi" began to play—peaceful woodland scenes contrasting sharply with the war footage—Steve felt a heavy tap on his shoulder.
"Outside," the burly man growled. "Now."
Steve knew he should walk away, but he thought of the woman with the gold star and all the men fighting overseas while this jerk complained about newsreels. With a resigned sigh, he headed for the exit, the man following close behind.
The theater's side door opened into a trash-strewn alley. Steve had barely taken three steps when a ham-sized fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling into a row of garbage cans.
Steve tasted blood but pushed himself back to his feet, raising his fists in an approximation of a boxing stance. He darted forward, landing a surprisingly solid uppercut followed by a kidney punch.
The big man flinched, then laughed. "Not bad for a runt."
His next swing caught Steve squarely, sending him staggering. Another blow sent him sprawling into the garbage again.
Steve's fingers found a trash can lid. He grabbed it instinctively, raising it just in time to block the next punch. The improvised shield vibrated with the impact, but held.
The man yanked the lid away and threw it aside, then landed another blow that lifted Steve clear off his feet. He hit the cement hard, breath leaving his lungs in a painful whoosh.
Despite the pain, Steve forced himself back to his feet, swaying but determined.
The man stared in disbelief. "You just don't know when to give up, do you?"
Steve spit blood onto the pavement. "I can do this all day."
The big man wound up for another punch, but before he could throw it, someone grabbed his arm from behind.
"Hey!" a familiar voice called. "Pick on someone your own size."
The big man spun to face Sergeant James "Bucky" Barnes, resplendent in his dress uniform.
The bully tried to throw a punch, but Bucky easily sidestepped it, delivering a perfect right hook followed by a second blow that doubled the man over. For good measure, Bucky spun him around and planted a swift kick to his backside, sending him stumbling toward the alley's exit.
"And stay out!" Bucky called after him, then turned to his swaying friend. "Sometimes I think you like getting punched."
"I had him on the ropes," Steve protested weakly, dabbing at his bleeding lip.
Bucky snorted in amusement and moved to help, stopping to gather Steve's scattered belongings. A folded paper had fallen from Steve's pocket. Bucky picked it up, his expression changing as he realized what it was.
"How many times is this?" he asked, unfolding the enlistment form. "You're from Paramus now? You know it's illegal to lie on the enlistment form. And seriously, Jersey?"
Steve avoided his friend's gaze, instead focusing on Bucky's uniform with its new sergeant's stripes. "You get your orders?"
Bucky's expression softened. He tucked the rejected form back into Steve's pocket. "The 107th. Sergeant James Barnes, shipping out for England first thing tomorrow."
"I should be going," Steve said quietly, the weight of his latest rejection settling heavy on his shoulders.
"Come on, man. My last night!" Bucky protested, throwing an arm around Steve. "I got to get you cleaned up."
"Why?" Steve asked, wincing as Bucky's embrace pressed against his bruised ribs. "Where are we going?"
Bucky pulled a folded newspaper from his pocket and opened it with a flourish. "The future."
The headline announced the "World Exhibition of Tomorrow," complete with illustrations of sleek monorails and futuristic buildings.
"The Stark Expo?" Steve asked skeptically. "Isn't that a bit crowded for your last night?"
"It'll be fun," Bucky insisted. "Besides, I've got us dates."
"Dates? Plural?"
"Double date," Bucky confirmed, grinning. "You, me, and the Williams sisters."
"Buck, I don't know..."
"Come on, it'll be great," Bucky insisted.
"Actually, I met someone at the recruitment center today," Steve said, remembering Peter Parker. "His name's Peter. His dad served with my father in the 107th during the last war. He mentioned he'd be at the Expo tonight with some friends."
"Perfect!" Bucky declared. "We'll track him down. Any son of the 107th is welcome to join us."
As they walked out of the alley, Steve smiled despite his injuries. One night of fun before Bucky shipped out. One night to pretend the war wasn't waiting for them all.
—
The New York sky was alive with light. Searchlights swept across the clouds, colorful fireworks burst overhead, and the gleaming monorail sped above the fairgrounds, carrying excited visitors across the sprawling exhibition. The Stark Expo was a fantasyland of chrome and neon, promising a glimpse into a future without war or want.
Steve and Bucky walked down the bustling midway, surrounded by laughing families and wide-eyed children. Vendors hawked cotton candy and hot dogs while barkers invited passersby to marvel at technological wonders. Despite the festive atmosphere, Steve's thoughts kept drifting back to his fifth rejection. The crumpled form might be gone, but the sting remained.
"I don't see what the problem is," Bucky said, nudging Steve's shoulder to pull him out of his brooding. "You're about to be the last eligible man in New York. You know there's three and a half million women here?"
Steve gave a half-hearted smile. "Well, I'd settle for just one."
Bucky suddenly brightened, waving enthusiastically at someone in the distance. "Good thing I took care of that."
Following Bucky's gaze, Steve spotted two young women waiting near the entrance to the Modern Marvels Pavilion. Both were dressed for a night on the town, their colorful dresses standing out among the crowd.
"Hey, Bucky!" called the taller of the two, waving back with enthusiasm that matched Bucky's.
Steve felt his stomach clench with familiar anxiety. "What'd you tell her about me?"
"Only the good stuff," Bucky assured him with a confident grin that did little to ease Steve's concerns.
As they approached the women, Steve noticed a small crowd gathering around another exhibition adjacent to the main pavilion. A sign proclaimed: "Dr. Phineas Horton Presents... The Synthetic Man!" Several onlookers were pressing close to a large glass enclosure, their faces bathed in an odd, flickering light.
"Connie, Bonnie, meet my best friend, Steve Rogers," Bucky said, introducing the women with a flourish.
Connie, the taller one, gave Steve a quick once-over, her smile faltering just enough to be noticeable. Bonnie barely looked at him, her eyes still fixed admiringly on Bucky's uniform.
"Nice to meet you ladies," Steve said politely, trying not to feel invisible next to Bucky's sergeant stripes and confident bearing.
"Welcome to the Modern Marvels Pavilion and the World of Tomorrow," boomed an announcer's voice over the loudspeaker. "A greater world. A better world."
"Oh, my God! It's starting!" Connie exclaimed, grabbing Bucky's arm. "The Howard Stark presentation!"
"We should hurry if we want good spots," Bonnie added, already tugging them toward the main pavilion.
Steve cast one last curious glance at the Synthetic Man exhibit, where he could now see a young man in a red bodysuit sitting motionless inside the glass case, before following the others inside.
As they weaved through the crowd, Steve heard a familiar voice call his name. Turning, he spotted Peter Parker waving at him from near a display of futuristic kitchen appliances. Peter wasn't alone—a strikingly beautiful redhead stood beside him, along with two other young men.
"Steve! You made it!" Peter said, adjusting his glasses as he approached.
"Pete, hey," Steve replied, genuinely pleased to see a friendly face. "Bucky, this is Peter Parker, the guy I told you about from the recruitment center. His father served with my dad in the 107th."
Bucky extended his hand. "Sergeant James Barnes. Any connection to the 107th is family in my book."
"Pleasure to meet you, Sergeant," Peter said, shaking Bucky's hand firmly. "This is my girlfriend, Jane Devereaux."
Both Steve and Bucky tried—and failed—to hide their surprise. Jane was, by any standard, breathtaking. Her copper-red hair fell in loose waves to her shoulders, framing a face that would have made Hollywood starlets envious. But it wasn't just her looks that commanded attention; she carried herself with confident poise, her intelligent eyes appraising them with frank curiosity.
"Pleased to meet you both," Jane said, her voice carrying a hint of amusement at their poorly concealed reaction. She slipped her arm through Peter's with obvious affection. "Pete's told me his father served with yours, Steve. That makes you practically family."
Steve fumbled for words, still trying to reconcile the shy, lanky photographer with his stunning girlfriend. "Uh, yes, that's right. It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Devereaux."
Peter grinned, clearly used to this reaction. "And these are my friends, Jack Thompson and Ted Knight."
The two men nodded in greeting. Thompson was tall and athletic with an easy smile, while Knight was of medium height with sharp blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. He was dressed in a rumpled tweed jacket that had seen better days, and round wire-rimmed glasses perched on his straight nose.
"Knight and I were at the recruitment center this morning," Peter explained. "Seems we're all having the same luck."
"Not quite all the same luck," Ted corrected with a slight smile, adjusting his glasses. "They finally took me—shipping out next week. Physics teacher by trade, but they're putting me in the Army Signal Corps. Apparently my 'theoretical expertise' might be useful after all."
"Congratulations," Steve said, unable to keep the envy from his voice as he shook Knight's hand. "What's your field again? Peter mentioned it."
"Stellar radiation and gravimetric theory," Ted replied, his eyes lighting up with genuine passion. "Theoretical applications of cosmic energy. Not exactly what the Army's looking for these days, but apparently they've found a use for me."
"Heading to see Stark's flying car?" Peter asked, bringing the conversation back to the evening at hand.
"That's right," Bucky confirmed, glancing at Connie and Bonnie, who were impatiently hovering nearby. "These ladies are eager to see the famous Howard Stark in action."
"We're headed there too," Jane said, giving Peter an adoring look. "Howard Stark in person—how could anyone miss that? The man's a legend."
"But first," Peter added, "we wanted to check out Dr. Horton's exhibit. Have you seen it? The Synthetic Man?"
"We passed by," Steve said. "Something about a synthetic man?"
"It's the most fascinating thing," Peter enthused, his eyes lighting up. "Dr. Horton has supposedly created an artificial person. Not just a robot or mannequin, but a synthetic human being with its own consciousness."
"That sounds like something out of a pulp magazine," Bucky said skeptically.
"The subject's name is Jim Hammond," Thompson explained. "My cousin works at the War Department. Said Hammond was created in a laboratory using some kind of synthetic materials. The military was funding his research until recently."
"Why'd they stop?" Steve asked, his curiosity piqued.
"There were... complications," Thompson continued. "Said Hammond started exhibiting unusual abilities during testing. They got spooked and pulled the funding."
"What kind of abilities?" Bucky asked.
"Supposedly, he can generate extreme heat," Ted said, his scientific interest evident. "That's why they keep him in that glass case—it's fireproof."
As they made their way through the fairgrounds, the group passed by several military exhibits showcasing new technologies for the war effort. One display in particular caught their attention—a cordoned-off area where a group of Army officers and scientists were gathered around what appeared to be a humanoid figure.
"What is that thing?" Bucky asked, slowing to look.
The figure stood over six feet tall with a distinctly military bearing. Unlike the crude mechanical contraptions they'd seen elsewhere, this robot had a surprisingly human-like appearance despite its clearly artificial nature. Its body was constructed of polished bronze-colored metal with intricate articulation at the joints. Instead of a human face, its head was a rounded dome with a flat faceplate featuring two glowing red photoreceptors that gave the impression of eyes. The number "1" was stenciled prominently on its chest plate, and a small American flag was emblazoned on its shoulder.
"That's the G.I. Robot," Thompson explained, clearly impressed. "My cousin at the War Department mentioned it. Officially called the 'Robotman Project' or something like that. It's supposed to be the first in a line of mechanical soldiers that can be sent where it's too dangerous for men."
"Doesn't look like it could survive a stiff breeze," Bucky commented skeptically, though his expression suggested more curiosity than he was willing to admit.
A military officer in dress uniform noticed their interest and approached. "Interested in our mechanical soldier, folks?" he asked with practiced enthusiasm. "This is the future of warfare—a fighting machine that doesn't need food, doesn't feel fear, and can't be killed." He gestured toward the robot with evident pride. "Would you like to see a demonstration?"
Before anyone could respond, the officer turned to the robot. "G.I. Robot, activate demonstration protocol."
The robot's photoreceptors brightened, and it straightened to attention with a mechanical precision that somehow still conveyed military discipline. When it spoke, its voice was deep and resonant, with a metallic timbre but surprisingly human intonation.
"G.I. Robot, Mark One, reporting for duty, sir," it announced, executing a perfect salute.
Connie and Bonnie instinctively stepped back, clinging to Bucky's arms. "It sounds almost human," Bonnie whispered, her eyes wide.
"Advanced vocal synthesizer," the officer explained. "Makes communication in the field more natural. G.I. Robot, identify these civilians."
The robot's head swiveled with a subtle mechanical whir, its photoreceptors adjusting as it scanned the group. "Scanning... civilian personnel detected. No known military identification." Its head tilted slightly as it focused on Bucky. "Correction: one United States Army sergeant identified. 107th Infantry based on insignia."
Bucky straightened involuntarily under the robot's scrutiny. "That's... correct," he admitted, impressed despite himself.
The robot continued scanning, its photoreceptors lingering on each face in turn. When it reached Connie, it paused, its head tilting to the opposite side in what seemed almost like suspicion.
"Query: are you affiliated with Nazi Germany or its allies?" the robot asked directly, its mechanical voice somehow conveying suspicion.
Connie gasped, clutching Bucky's arm tighter. "What? No! I'm American!"
"That's what a nazi would say," the robot countered, taking a heavy step forward. The concrete floor vibrated slightly beneath its metal foot.
The officer stepped between them quickly, looking slightly embarrassed. "The identification protocols are still being refined," he explained. "G.I. Robot has a tendency to be... overzealous in its security assessments."
"I am programmed to be vigilant against enemy infiltration," the robot stated unapologetically, its photoreceptors still fixed on Connie. "The safety of American personnel is my primary directive."
"He's just doing his job," Steve said with unexpected sympathy. There was something in the robot's dedication to purpose that resonated with him.
"He?" Jane asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's a machine, Steve."
"G.I. Robot is a soldier," Steve replied simply. "Just a different kind."
The robot's head pivoted toward Steve, photoreceptors adjusting as if reassessing him. "Correct. This unit's purpose is to serve alongside human soldiers, undertaking missions that would result in unacceptable human casualties."
"G.I. Robot, demonstrate combat capabilities," the officer commanded, clearly eager to move past the awkward accusation.
With startling speed, the robot's arms reconfigured—panels sliding open to reveal integrated weaponry. "Combat mode engaged," it announced. The targeting systems in its eyes projected visible beams that swept across the exhibition hall before settling on a practice dummy at the far end of the display area.
"Target acquired. Requesting permission to fire."
"Permission denied," the officer said quickly. "Simulation only."
The robot nodded—a surprisingly human gesture—and went through the motions of firing without actually discharging its weapons. "Simulation complete. Target neutralized."
"The actual firepower demonstrations are conducted at our testing range," the officer explained. "But G.I. Robot is equipped with advanced targeting systems and integrated weapons that can be modified for different mission parameters."
"The principle is sound," Ted observed, studying the robot with professional interest. "Though I imagine remote control at significant distances would present substantial challenges."
"G.I. Robot operates autonomously," the officer corrected. "It can follow general orders while making tactical decisions based on battlefield conditions. The finest mechanical mind the Army has produced."
"And it thinks Connie's a Nazi," Bucky muttered, though there was more amusement than annoyance in his tone now.
"I remain suspicious of the female," G.I. Robot stated matter-of-factly. "Her reaction patterns display statistically significant deviations from established American civilian baselines."
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Connie exclaimed, though her fear had largely given way to indignation.
"See?" Bucky grinned. "Even the robot thinks you're one of a kind."
Connie softened slightly at the compliment, though she still kept a wary distance from the mechanical soldier. "Well, I suppose I should take that as a compliment." She tugged at Bucky's arm. "Can we go see Howard Stark's presentation now? I hear he's much more charming than your metal friend here."
"Stark's presentation is scheduled to begin in approximately twelve minutes," G.I. Robot supplied helpfully, its earlier suspicion apparently forgotten. "The Modern Marvels Pavilion is located 137 meters northeast of this position."
"Thanks, soldier," Steve said with a small salute.
The robot returned the salute with perfect military precision. "Serving my country, sir. That is why I was created."
As they prepared to move on, Steve lingered a moment longer, studying the mechanical man with unexpected connection. Here was another being created for a specific purpose, judged primarily by its utility in war. Yet beneath its programmed responses, Steve sensed something more—a genuine dedication to service that transcended its mechanical nature.
"Keep up the good work," Steve said quietly.
"I always do my best, sir," G.I. Robot replied, its voice somehow conveying both pride and humility. "It is all any soldier can do."