May 1st 1940
The world was unraveling.
By May of 1940, the news pouring into America painted a picture of unstoppable chaos. Germany, now allied with Italy and Japan under the banner of the Axis, was sweeping through Europe with frightening speed. One by one, countries fell—Norway, Denmark, Belgium. Now, France was cracking beneath the weight of the Nazi advance.
Radio broadcasts called it blitzkrieg—"lightning war." A brutal, relentless assault combining tanks, aircraft, and ground troops, moving faster than anyone thought possible. Cities that had once stood for centuries were reduced to rubble in days. Soldiers barely had time to organize before they were outflanked or surrounded. Entire divisions were captured. Prisoners marched by the thousands—some never to be seen again.
Even the British, dug in across the Channel, were barely holding on.
And the worst part were the whispers—rumors of terrifying new technologies. Giant mechanical units that moved too fast for their size, weapons that fired silent energy pulses, and planes that shimmered like ghosts in the sky. No one knew what was real, but the fear was.
The Next Morning
Steve walked the Brooklyn streets slowly, the paper bag in his coat pocket crinkling softly with every step. The weight of the world was heavy on his shoulders, but so too were the memories.
His fingers traced the edge of the bag absently, and his thoughts drifted—back to the sound of his father's voice.
Years Earlier – A Memory
He was eight years old, curled on the small sofa beside his father, Joseph Rogers. The man's lungs were already weak then—ravaged from the gas—but he still spoke with warmth and fire in his voice.
"Did I ever tell you about the Englishman I bunked with near the Somme?" Joseph had asked, eyes twinkling.
Steve shook his head, wide-eyed.
"Name was John. Quiet, bit of a dreamer. Said he taught at a college before the war. He used to write in this little notebook—every night, even during the shelling. Said he was building a world. Full of elves, dragons, rings of power."
Steve's mouth fell open.
Joseph smiled. "His real name was Tolkien. J.R.R. Tolkien. Told me he wasn't sure what the story would be, but it was about courage. About small people standing against great darkness."
Steve leaned forward. "What happened to him?"
"Survived, far as I know. Said he was going to keep writing once the war ended." Joseph chuckled, then coughed. "Told me something once—'Fairy tales are not just for children. They help us remember that dragons can be beaten.'"
The memory warmed Steve's chest like a lantern lit inside him.
Another memory surfaced—one that linked everything.
Joseph standing in the kitchen, his hand on young Steve's shoulder, saying:
"Back at Verdun, I served with a fella from Brooklyn. Loud, stubborn, decent. Name was George Barnes. Got his arm cut by shrapnel—would've bled out if I hadn't pulled him out."
Steve blinked.
"You mean—Bucky's dad?"
Joseph nodded. "We shared a foxhole for three nights after that. Got shelled half to hell. Talked about what kind of world we'd want for our kids, if we ever made it home. I said I wanted my boy to live in a world where being kind still meant something."
Steve hadn't realized it then, but George had saved his father's life in return during that same offensive. The two men had become friends—not just by chance, but by blood and mud and survival. That friendship had led, quietly and naturally, to Bucky and Steve becoming brothers in everything but name.
Back in Brooklyn, it was all anyone could talk about.
Steve sat with the Barnes family in their modest kitchen, the radio crackling with static and dread.
"...French forces continue to retreat. German troops are advancing into Paris. British Expeditionary forces trapped near Dunkirk..."
George Barnes leaned forward, jaw clenched. "This isn't like the last war. They're tearing through nations in weeks, not years."
Winnifred clutched her coffee cup tightly. "There's talk the Nazis have machines no one's seen before. Some kind of science that doesn't belong on Earth."
Steve said nothing, but the words sank deep. He felt so small in that moment. Just a boy with paper sketches and a trick of floating drawings—while the world burned across the ocean.
Even Bucky was quiet, his usual swagger dulled by the news. "They're saying it's over for France. The Maginot Line didn't hold. People are fleeing in the streets."
Steve looked around. The cupboards were stocked, but tighter than usual. Winnifred had been buying less sugar, stretching meat, and cutting back on everything from candles to soap. She wasn't the only one. Everyone in the neighborhood had begun to prepare, just in case the war came home.
Later that night...
Despite everything, Bucky had plans. Two girls from their school had invited them to a small get-together near the docks—a little diner with a jukebox and cheap milkshakes. Something to forget the war, even just for a night.
Steve agreed to go, mostly for Bucky's sake.
When they arrived, Steve immediately felt out of place. The music was loud, the lights soft and yellow. Bucky, tall and confident, fit right in. The girls smiled at him, laughed easily at his jokes.
Steve sat beside them, quiet, offering small smiles. He tried to join the conversation once or twice, but was brushed aside—gently, politely, but unmistakably. One of the girls, Clara, even leaned toward Bucky and whispered, "Is that your little cousin?"
Bucky stiffened. "He's my best friend."
But the damage was done. Steve shrank in his seat.
After twenty minutes of pretending to sip a half-melted shake, Steve murmured something about needing fresh air and stepped outside. The spring night was cool. He leaned against a brick wall, hands in his pockets, watching a group of boys argue over a newspaper headline about the fall of Belgium.
A moment later, Bucky stepped out too.
"They're idiots," he said, offering Steve a lopsided grin. "We'll find something better to do next time. Just us."
Steve nodded. "Thanks, Buck."
He didn't say more. He didn't need to.
Later that afternoon, Steve left the apartment to walk off the weight in his chest. He wandered down to Stan's grocery store—same creaky floorboards, same overstuffed shelves, same handwritten signs.
Stan looked up from behind the counter, adjusting his thick glasses.
"Bad day?" he asked gently.
Steve nodded. "Feels like they all are."
Stan sighed. "The world's changing too fast for anyone to understand it. But that doesn't mean we stop being who we are."
He paused, then added, "Your folks would be proud of how you carry yourself, Steve. I know it's hard. But remember—why you keep going matters more than how fast."
Steve lowered his eyes. "I wish I could do more."
"You will," Stan said, handing him a paper bag. "Lemon sherbets for Rebecca. Half off—war or no war, sweet's still sweet."
As Steve walked home, the air felt colder than it should in May. The fear was real now. Nations were falling. Friends and fathers were shipping out. And on every front, there was nothing but blood, prisoners, and fire.
He clutched the sherbet bag tightly.
How could one boy possibly make a difference in a world like this?