WORLD EXPOSITION OF TOMORROW, RECRUITMENT PAVILION - NIGHT
The recruitment pavilion stood in stark contrast to the glittering futurism of the rest of the Stark Expo. Where the exhibition celebrated what might be, the recruitment center dealt in the harsh reality of now—a world at war that needed soldiers, not dreams.
Steve and Peter entered side by side, exchanging determined glances before approaching the front desk. The recruitment officer barely looked up from his paperwork.
"Name and place of residence?" he asked mechanically.
"Steve Rogers, Paramus," Steve answered without hesitation.
The officer handed him a form. "Fill this out, then proceed to examination room three."
"Peter Parker, New Mexico," Peter said when it was his turn, earning a subtle impressed nod from Steve at his choice of fictional hometown.
"Room four," the officer directed, passing Peter his own form.
The two men sat on a nearby bench, quickly scribbling on their enlistment forms. Steve had gotten disturbingly proficient at falsifying the document, knowing which ailments to omit and which he might be able to hide. Peter, with only his heart murmur and flat feet to conceal, seemed less practiced but equally determined.
"Good luck," Peter whispered as they stood to go their separate ways.
"You too," Steve replied. "See you on the other side."
Steve's examination room was small and clinical, with a privacy curtain and a cold metal table covered by a thin paper sheet. He undressed to his underclothes as instructed and sat waiting. The young doctor who entered seemed harried and distracted, going through the motions of the examination with mechanical efficiency.
"Deep breath," he ordered, placing a stethoscope against Steve's thin chest.
Steve complied, trying not to wince as the cold metal touched his skin. He'd been through this routine enough times to know what would happen next.
"Again."
Steve inhaled deeply, fighting the familiar tightness that always threatened to trigger his asthma during these examinations.
The doctor frowned slightly, moving the stethoscope to different positions. The blood pressure cuff came next, squeezing Steve's frail arm uncomfortably tight. As the pressure released, the doctor's frown deepened.
"You can get dressed," he finally said, ripping the cuff off more roughly than necessary.
Steve had just started to pull on his shirt when a nurse entered and whispered something to the doctor. Both of them glanced at Steve with expressions that made his stomach clench with familiar dread.
"Wait here," the doctor instructed.
"Am I in trouble?" Steve asked, knowing the answer.
"Just wait here," the doctor repeated, following the nurse out of the room.
Alone, Steve's eyes fell on a poster mounted prominently on the wall: "IT IS ILLEGAL TO FALSIFY YOUR ENLISTMENT FORM. ONLY TRAITORS LIE TO THEIR COUNTRY."
The implications hit Steve like a physical blow. He'd been caught. This wasn't just another rejection—this time there could be legal consequences. He glanced at his clothes, calculating whether he could dress and slip out before anyone returned. But before he could decide, the curtain slid open.
A Military Police officer filled the doorway, his imposing presence making the small examination room feel even smaller. Steve froze, shirt half-buttoned.
"I'm in trouble," he said, resignation in his voice.
But the MP stepped aside, revealing a man in a lab coat behind him. The newcomer was in his mid-fifties, with receding gray hair and tired eyes behind round spectacles. He carried a file folder and had the air of someone who had seen too many long nights.
"Thank you," the older man said to the MP, who nodded and took up position outside the curtain.
The doctor turned his attention to Steve, studying him with sharp intelligence beneath his weary exterior. "So, you want to go overseas, kill some Nazis?"
"Excuse me?" Steve asked, caught off guard by the direct question.
"Dr. Abraham Erskine," the man introduced himself, extending his hand. "I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
Steve shook the offered hand, noting the firm grip. "Steve Rogers," he replied, though Erskine clearly already knew his name. "Where are you from?"
"Queens. 73rd Street and Utopia Parkway," Erskine answered with a slight smile, before adding, "Before that, Germany. This troubles you?"
Steve considered this for a moment, then shrugged. "No."
Erskine's smile widened slightly as he opened the file in his hands. "Where are you from, Mr. Rogers? Is it New Haven? Or Paramus?" He flipped through several papers. "Five exams in five different cities."
"That might not be the right file," Steve attempted weakly.
"No, it's not the exams I'm interested in," Erskine said, looking up from the papers to meet Steve's eyes directly. "It's the five tries. But you didn't answer my question. Do you want to kill Nazis?"
Steve hesitated, sensing something important beneath the seemingly simple question. "Is this a test?"
"Yes," Erskine confirmed simply.
Steve straightened, meeting the doctor's gaze with newfound conviction. "I don't want to kill anyone. I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from."
Something shifted in Erskine's expression—approval, perhaps, or confirmation of a theory. He nodded slightly.
"Well, there are already so many big men fighting this war," the doctor said, gesturing vaguely toward the fairgrounds beyond the pavilion. "Maybe what we need now is a little guy." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "I can offer you a chance. Only a chance."
"I'll take it," Steve said without hesitation.
Erskine studied him a moment longer, then nodded. "Good. So where is the little guy from? Actually?"
"Brooklyn," Steve admitted.
"Congratulations, soldier," Erskine said, producing a stamp from his pocket. With a crisp motion, he pressed it against Steve's file. As he lifted it, Steve could see the classification that had eluded him through five attempts: 1A.
Before Steve could fully process what had just happened, a commotion arose from the adjacent examination room. Raised voices could be heard through the thin walls.
"I'm telling you, Doctor, there's no mistake in the records," came a frustrated voice. "Mr. Parker has been rejected twice before for his heart condition."
Erskine's eyebrows rose slightly. He glanced at Steve. "Parker? Your friend, I presume?"
Steve nodded. "We met at the Bayonne recruitment center this morning. His father served with mine in the 107th."
"The 107th, you say?" Erskine looked thoughtful. "Wait here a moment, Mr. Rogers. Finish getting dressed."
The doctor slipped out through the curtain. Steve hurriedly pulled on his clothes, mind racing with possibilities. Had he actually been accepted? And what about Peter?
After several minutes, the curtain parted again, and Erskine returned, this time with Peter in tow. The taller young man looked as bewildered as Steve felt.
"Mr. Parker's file shows a moderate heart murmur, though otherwise he appears to be in excellent physical condition," Erskine explained. "Normally, this would be disqualifying for standard infantry service."
Peter's face fell, but Erskine continued.
"However, the Strategic Scientific Reserve operates under... different parameters than conventional military units. We have need of men with various talents and capabilities." He turned to Peter. "You mentioned to the examining physician that you work as a photographer?"
"Yes, sir," Peter confirmed. "I've been working at my father's studio since I was twelve. I also have some experience with chemical processing and darkroom techniques."
"Excellent," Erskine nodded. "Visual documentation will be an important component of our work."
The doctor produced another stamp and pressed it decisively onto Peter's file. "Gentlemen, you are both now officially part of the United States Army. You will receive your orders to report to basic training shortly." He handed each of them a card with the SSR insignia. "Welcome to the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
Steve and Peter exchanged stunned glances, neither quite believing what had just happened.
"Thank you, Doctor," Steve managed, his voice thick with emotion.
"Do not thank me yet, Mr. Rogers," Erskine replied with a wry smile. "You may not be so grateful when basic training begins."
With that, the doctor excused himself, leaving Steve and Peter to absorb their sudden change in status from rejected civilians to enlisted men.
"Did that just happen?" Peter asked, staring at the 1A stamp on his file as if expecting it to vanish.
"I think it did," Steve replied, a smile spreading across his face—the first genuine smile he'd worn all day.
They emerged from the recruitment pavilion into the bright lights and festive atmosphere of the Expo, the contrast between the serious moment they'd just experienced and the carefree celebration around them almost jarring. The fairground hummed with laughter and music, oblivious to the momentous change in their lives.
"Peter! Steve!" Jane's voice cut through the crowd. She was waiting nearby with Thompson, her expression anxious until she caught sight of them. "Well? How did it go?"
Peter held up his stamped form triumphantly. "We're in!"
Jane's expression cycled rapidly from shock to concern to pride. She threw her arms around Peter, hugging him tightly. "I knew they'd see reason eventually," she said, though her voice betrayed a hint of worry beneath her supportive words.
"Where's Ted?" Steve asked, noticing the physicist's absence.
"Already headed back to Fort Hamilton," Thompson replied. "Said something about reviewing schematics before tomorrow's briefing. The man's committed, I'll give him that."
"Congratulations, fellas," Thompson added, clapping Steve on the shoulder with genuine warmth. "When do you ship out?"
"We don't know yet," Steve admitted. "But soon, I expect."
"The 107th would be proud," Thompson said soberly. "Both your fathers."
The mention of his father brought a lump to Steve's throat. He wondered what Joseph Rogers would think of his son now—finally accepted, finally given a chance to serve. Would he be proud of Steve's persistence, or concerned about the path ahead?
"We should find Bucky," Steve said, suddenly remembering his friend. "He won't believe this."
"And we should celebrate," Jane declared, slipping her arm through Peter's. "This calls for something special. I know a little place near the dance pavilion that serves the best milkshakes in Queens."
As the group began making their way through the crowded fairgrounds, the Expo's bright lights casting everything in a dreamlike glow, they noticed a commotion ahead. A small crowd had gathered around a distinguished-looking man deep in conversation with one of Stark's technicians. The man was in his early thirties, dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that somehow managed to look understated despite its obvious quality.
"That's Patrick Wayne," Thompson whispered to Steve, noticing his curious glance. "Wayne Enterprises. One of the richest men in America."
"I've seen his picture in the papers," Steve nodded. Unlike Howard Stark, who seemed to court publicity, Wayne was known for his reserved nature and rare public appearances.
As they tried to edge past the gathering, Steve accidentally bumped into a spectator, causing a chain reaction that sent him stumbling directly into Wayne's path. The businessman turned just in time to steady Steve with a quick hand to his shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong for a man known primarily for his business acumen.
"Careful there," Wayne said, his voice cultured but not condescending.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wayne," Steve apologized, embarrassed to be making such an impression on someone of Wayne's stature.
Wayne looked surprised, his sharp eyes studying Steve with newfound interest. "You know me?"
"Your picture was in the papers last month," Steve explained. "The article about Wayne Enterprises developing new communications equipment for the Army."
"Ah, yes," Wayne nodded, seeming genuinely uncomfortable with the recognition. "Though the technical credit belongs to our engineers, not to me."
There was an awkward pause as Wayne seemed to be considering something, his gaze assessing Steve with an intensity that suggested he was looking beyond the obvious physical limitations to something deeper. Then he extended his hand. "Patrick Wayne."
"Steve Rogers," Steve replied, shaking the offered hand. Wayne's grip was firm but not overpowering—the handshake of someone with nothing to prove.
"You're military?" Wayne asked, noticing the 1A classification form still clutched in Steve's hand.
"Just enlisted," Steve admitted. "Though I'm not sure what I'm in for yet. Something called the Strategic Scientific Reserve."
Wayne's eyebrows rose slightly, genuine surprise flickering across his otherwise composed features. "Dr. Erskine's program?"
Now it was Steve's turn to be surprised. "You know Dr. Erskine?"
"I've had some dealings with the SSR," Wayne said carefully, his tone measured as if weighing each word. "Consulting work, mainly. Dr. Erskine is... formidable. Brilliant, but demanding." He studied Steve with newfound interest, as if seeing him in an entirely new light. "If he selected you personally, he must see something special."
Steve felt his face flush with embarrassment. "I doubt that, sir. I think they just need men."
"The Army has plenty of men, Mr. Rogers," Wayne replied with a slight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What it lacks is the right kind of men." There was a weight to his words that suggested deeper meaning—as if he knew far more about Erskine's program than he was letting on.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the main stage, where Howard Stark was still surrounded by admirers. "I should find Howard before he promises the Pentagon something my engineers will have to build." His expression softened slightly. "Good luck with your service, Mr. Rogers. I have a feeling we'll meet again."
With a final nod, Wayne moved off through the crowd toward Stark's exhibition, his posture straight and purposeful, drawing respectful glances from those who recognized him.
"You just met Patrick Wayne," Peter said, sounding impressed as he rejoined Steve. "The Patrick Wayne."
"He knows something about the program we've enlisted in," Steve said, still watching Wayne's retreating figure. "Said Erskine is brilliant but demanding."
"And that he sees something special in you," Peter added, having overheard part of the conversation.
Steve shook his head. "I think he was just being polite."
"Maybe," Peter said thoughtfully. "Or maybe there's more to this Strategic Scientific Reserve than just a fancy name."
"As long as they let us serve," Steve said firmly. "That's all that matters."
"Agreed," Peter nodded. "And speaking of service, I'd better get back to Jane before she thinks I've shipped out already."
Steve fell into step beside his new friend, their 1A classifications clutched proudly in their hands. Whatever the Strategic Scientific Reserve might be, whatever Dr. Erskine might have planned for them, they had finally been given their chance to make a difference.
As they rejoined Jane and Thompson, the sounds of a big band swelled from the dance pavilion. Couples swirled across the floor, laughing and carefree, as if there wasn't a war raging an ocean away. But soon, Steve knew, he and Peter would be part of that war—not as spectators watching newsreels in darkened theaters, but as soldiers fighting for the future that exhibitions like this one promised.
For tonight, though, they could celebrate. Tomorrow would come soon enough, bringing with it whatever destiny Dr. Erskine had glimpsed in a skinny kid from Brooklyn and his photographer friend.
"To the 107th," Peter said, raising an imaginary toast as they reached the dance pavilion.
"To the 107th," Steve echoed, pride swelling in his chest. "And to whatever comes next."
Jane linked arms with both men, her expression a complex mixture of pride and concern. "To brave men," she added softly. "And to coming home safely when it's over."
—
HYDRA HQ - DAY
A solitary guard post stood atop a sheer cliff face, manned by black-uniformed soldiers whose masked faces betrayed no emotion. The wind howled across the mountaintop fortress, a natural camouflage that had protected the installation from Allied reconnaissance flights for months. No ordinary military base, this was the heart of HYDRA's operations—Johann Schmidt's personal sanctuary where science and mysticism converged.
Far below the guard post, deep within the mountain itself, the future of warfare was taking shape.
INT. HYDRA HQ, SCHMIDT'S OFFICE LAB - DAY
Dr. Arnim Zola's distorted face filled a monitor, his features stretched and warped by the primitive technology. The camera's lens captured his perpetual expression of nervous anticipation—a man forever caught between scientific curiosity and moral dread.
"Are you ready, Dr. Zola?" Schmidt's voice carried throughout the laboratory, echoing off the stark concrete walls.
The camera pulled back to reveal Zola standing across the room, peering into the camera with anxious intensity. Between them stood an empty cradle nestled in the center of a complex machine—a device of gleaming metal and precise engineering that looked both futuristic and somehow ancient in design.
"My machine requires the most delicate calibration," Zola replied, adjusting his spectacles with trembling fingers. "Forgive me if I seem overcautious."
The laboratory represented the pinnacle of HYDRA's technological achievements—a space where conventional science had been pushed beyond reasonable limits. Equipment hummed with barely contained energy, gauges and dials monitoring processes that most scientists would consider theoretical at best, impossible at worst. The walls were lined with schematics for weapons that defied conventional understanding, blueprints for vehicles that could revolutionize warfare.
Johann Schmidt made careful adjustments to a conduit attached to a large battery. His movements were precise, almost reverential. Despite his outward confidence, a sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, betraying the tension of the moment.
"Are you certain the conductors will withstand the energy surge long enough for the transference?" Schmidt asked, his tone measuring each word carefully.
Zola's eyes darted nervously to the conduits snaking from the battery to a crude cannon positioned at the far end of the laboratory. A small wooden target awaited, innocuous and yet symbolic of Schmidt's greater ambitions.
"With this...artifact..." Zola hesitated, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, "I am certain of nothing." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "In fact, I fear this may not work at all."
Schmidt's gaze drifted to a carved wooden box resting on a nearby table—the same box he had claimed in Norway at the cost of so many lives. Its ancient craftsmanship stood in stark contrast to the clinical modernity of the laboratory.
"Then we have lost only time, Doctor," Schmidt replied with uncharacteristic patience. "But if it does work..."
Surrounding the box were ancient tomes spread open to specific pages. Illustrations of a mammoth tree with a snake hidden in its roots—Yggdrasil and Jörmungandr from Norse mythology. Schmidt had spent months studying these texts, connecting threads between ancient legends and the reality he now sought to harness.
"In a matter of minutes, we might control the power of the gods." Schmidt's voice took on an almost reverent quality. "Either way..."
His eyes lingered on another engraving: a glowing cube laying waste to a horde of barbarians. The artist who had created the image centuries ago could never have known that their mythological rendering would one day serve as a blueprint for apocalyptic reality.
"It is a moment of terrible possibility."
With careful movements, Schmidt approached the box and opened it. Immediately, blinding blue light shot out, bathing the laboratory in an unearthly glow. The cerulean radiance filled every corner of the room with an otherworldly luminescence, casting everything in sharp relief.
Zola quickly secured his specially designed protective glasses, his hands moving with the practiced urgency of someone who had anticipated this moment but still feared it. The unnatural light reflected off the lenses as he squinted at the phenomenon before him.
Schmidt reached for a specialized mechanical extraction device—a metal instrument with prongs designed specifically for handling objects of extreme power. With scientific precision, he used the device to lift the Tesseract from its ancient container. The cube pulsed with cosmic energy, its perfect geometry seeming to distort the very space around it. Electric blue light surged through its crystalline structure in patterns that hinted at galaxies contained within.
With studied caution, Schmidt positioned the cube in the cradle of their machine. His face, illuminated by the azure glow, betrayed a moment of reverent wonder—this was power beyond anything humanity had ever harnessed. Once properly seated, a smoked-glass shield dropped down automatically, covering the chamber and partially containing the cube's overwhelming radiance. Through the protective barrier, they could now make out the defined edges of the perfect cube, though its internal structure continued to shift and swirl with patterns suggesting infinite depth.
With a steady hand, Schmidt turned a dial on the control panel. The Tesseract responded immediately, its energy synchronizing with the machine's frequency. A gauge marked "ENERGIENBATTERIE" began to glow with the same unearthly blue, its needle rising steadily: 20%...40%...60%...
Yet despite the energy readings, the battery connected to the system remained dark and cold, as though refusing to acknowledge the power being channeled into it.
"We are stable at seventy percent," Zola announced, studying the readings with professional detachment masking his inner turmoil. "Well within safety parameters."
Schmidt's lips curled into a slight sneer. "I did not come all this way for safety, Doctor."
Without hesitation, he reached over and turned the dial further. The needle jumped: 80%...90%... The laboratory's lights flickered as power was diverted to the experimental apparatus.
Zola stepped forward in alarm. "At those levels the power may be uncontroll—"
His protest died as Schmidt cranked the dial to its maximum setting. 100%. The gauge's needle pushed against its upper limit, threatening to break through.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with shocking suddenness, the cube unleashed its potential.
Otherworldly power burst from the Tesseract in a burning flash of azure brilliance. The energy flooded the conduits with impossible force, filling the empty battery with pulsing blue light. The metal housing of the battery creaked and strained, expanding slightly under the pressure of containing such power.
Just as it appeared the battery would burst, splitting apart and potentially taking half the mountain with it, the energy stabilized—but not before creating a momentary vision within the swirling light.
Both men gaped in astonishment as the energy coalesced into what could only be described as a window to another realm. For the briefest moment, they glimpsed a vast starfield unlike any earthly night sky, planets unknown to human astronomy, and structures that defied comprehension. It was as though the cube had briefly connected their laboratory to some distant corner of the cosmos.
Then, with an ear-splitting crack, the vision vanished as the collected energy discharged through the cannon. A searing beam of concentrated blue power shot across the laboratory, not merely striking the wooden target but utterly vaporizing it. The beam continued unimpeded, blasting a perfectly circular hole through the reinforced concrete wall behind.
Zola lunged for the control panel, pulling a heavy switch downward. The cube powered down, its light dimming but not disappearing entirely. The machine hummed as it cooled, various gauges slowly returning to normal ranges.
But the battery—the true purpose of the experiment—still glowed with a steady blue light, humming with contained power.
Breathless, Zola looked uneasily toward where they had seen the momentary glimpse into another reality. His scientific mind struggled to process what his eyes had witnessed.
"Did you see..." he began, voice barely above a whisper.
But Schmidt was transfixed by the destruction before him. The target was completely gone—not burned, not shattered, but erased from existence. Beyond it, the hole in the wall revealed not just the adjacent room but continued through several more walls, creating a perfect tunnel through solid concrete.
Slowly, deliberately, Schmidt allowed himself a smile—the expression unnatural on his severe features.
"Thank you, Doctor," he said, voice steady despite the trembling in his hands. "Your designs do not disappoint..."
He gestured to the ruined conduits and the damaged wall. "Though they may require reinforcement."
Zola moved to a monitoring station, taking readings from various instruments. His initial fear had given way to scientific fascination.
"The exchange is stable," he reported, unable to keep the amazement from his voice. "Amazing. The energy we've just collected could power a battleship. Ten battleships."
He turned to Schmidt, the implications of their success dawning on him fully. "This will change the war."
Schmidt crossed to a cabinet and removed a crystal decanter. He poured himself a whiskey, his hand still trembling slightly from the aftereffects of what they'd witnessed. He drank it in a single swallow, the mundane humanity of the gesture at odds with the cosmic forces they had just unleashed.
"Doctor Zola," Schmidt replied, his voice dropping to an almost intimate tone. "This will change the world."
The laboratory fell silent save for the persistent hum of the energized battery. In that moment, both men understood they had crossed a threshold from which there could be no return. They had touched something not meant for human hands—had captured a fraction of cosmic power in a container of human design.
Beyond the laboratory walls, the mountain fortress continued its operations, HYDRA soldiers unaware that the balance of power had just shifted dramatically. In Berlin, Hitler and his generals continued planning conventional warfare with conventional weapons, oblivious to the fact that one of their supposed allies had just rendered their entire arsenal obsolete.
Schmidt set down his glass and approached the battery, now glowing with contained stellar energy. His reflection appeared distorted in its surface—not just physically warped by the curved metal, but somehow fundamentally altered, as though the Tesseract had glimpsed his true nature and was reflecting it back at him.
"Preparations for mass production should begin immediately," he said, his tone making it clear this was not a suggestion but a command. "I want the first weapons ready for field testing within the month."
Zola nodded, though concern flickered across his features. "The power source is stable, but we must redesign the conduits to handle prolonged energy transfer. And the weapons themselves will require specialized components that don't yet exist."
"Then invent them," Schmidt replied simply. "You've already done the impossible today, Doctor. What's a few more miracles between colleagues?"
He turned from the battery and crossed to where the ancient tomes still lay open. His fingers traced the illustrations—the world tree, the cosmic serpent, the all-consuming fire that would herald Ragnarök. These were not just myths to him, but blueprints, instruction manuals left by those who had encountered the cube in earlier ages.
"The energy patterns," Zola said, studying a readout from one of his instruments. "They don't match anything in known physics. The decay rate, the particle interactions... it's as if they operate according to different natural laws entirely."
"Because they do," Schmidt replied without looking up from the ancient text. "What we witnessed wasn't just energy, Doctor. It was a glimpse beyond the veil of our reality." He turned to face Zola, his eyes alight with fervor. "Think of what that means. The cube is not just a power source—it's a doorway."
Zola removed his glasses, polishing them nervously with a handkerchief. "A doorway to where?"
"To wherever we wish to go," Schmidt answered. "To whatever we wish to become."
The implications hung in the air between them. Zola was a scientist first and foremost—brilliant but ultimately conventional in his ambitions. He sought to understand the universe as it was. Schmidt, however, had always been driven by a deeper hunger—not to understand reality but to reshape it according to his will.
"I should begin work on reinforcing the conduits," Zola said finally, uncomfortable with the direction of Schmidt's thoughts. "And designing containment units for the weapons systems."
"Yes," Schmidt agreed, allowing the moment of cosmic contemplation to pass. "Begin immediately. I'll want progress reports every twelve hours."
As Zola gathered his notes and prepared to depart, Schmidt turned his attention back to the battery. Its blue glow had stabilized now, pulsing with a slow, almost heartbeat-like rhythm. Within that metal housing was enough energy to level a city—and they had extracted only a fraction of the cube's potential.
"One more thing, Doctor," Schmidt called as Zola reached the laboratory door. "This project has the highest security classification. No reports to Berlin. Nothing in writing that leaves this facility."
Zola paused, understanding the implications. "And if Berlin inquires about our progress?"
"Then I will handle Berlin," Schmidt replied, his tone making it clear that the discussion was closed.
When Zola had gone, Schmidt returned to the Tesseract, still secured behind its protective shield. He stood before it in silence, communing with it as one might approach an altar. The cube's light seemed to respond to his presence, pulsing slightly faster as he drew near.
"You and I," he whispered to it, "we understand each other, don't we? You were not meant to be a mere weapon of war. You were meant to transform. To transcend."
He pressed his palm against the glass shield, feeling the cold energy emanating from within. The cube's light played across his features, illuminating the man he appeared to be while hinting at something else beneath—something that resonated with the cosmic power contained within the perfect geometric form.
"Together," he promised the cube, "we will rewrite the very nature of power itself."
Outside the mountain fortress, snow began to fall, covering the guard posts in a blanket of white. The ordinary world continued, unaware that within those walls, the fundamental balance of power had shifted irrevocably. The age of conventional warfare was ending, and a new era—one of power drawn from the stars themselves—had begun.
In the deepest part of the night, when the facility had grown quiet save for the patrols of guards and the hum of essential machinery, Schmidt returned to the laboratory alone. He dismissed the technicians, secured the doors, and stood once more before the Tesseract.
Slowly, reverently, he raised the protective shield. The cube's brilliance filled the room, casting its unearthly glow across his features. For a long moment, he simply observed it, feeling its power calling to something deep within himself.
"Show me," he whispered to it. "Show me again."
And though no one else was present to witness it, the cube's light seemed to intensify, patterns shifting within its crystalline structure. Within those patterns, worlds beyond human comprehension flickered momentarily into view—possibilities and powers that no earthly science could explain.
Schmidt smiled, understanding now that his destiny lay not in conquering nations, but in transcending the very limitations of humanity itself. The Tesseract had shown him a glimpse of what he might become, and he had recognized himself in that vision.
Not merely a leader of men, but something greater.
Something eternal.