When Luke and Bucky walked to the movie theater across the street, the future Captain America was being beaten in a back alley.
A loud boom echoed as a punch landed on Steve Rogers' cheek, pain flashing clearly across his face. Unsurprisingly, Rogers was knocked to the ground.
His thin frame made him look particularly frail compared to the towering brute attacking him.
Inside the theater, no one dared to intervene. No one wanted unnecessary trouble, even as the loud-mouthed bully disrupted the peace with little concern for others.
Only a "fool" like Rogers would risk a beating to stand up against impolite behavior.
From the corner, Rogers reached for a nearby trash can lid, holding it up like a makeshift shield.
In his eyes, there was no fear—only resolve. He looked like a brave warrior, though his courage couldn't compensate for the huge gap in size and strength.
The thug clenched his fist and knocked Rogers down again.
But not for long.
The scrawny young man pushed himself back up, posing like a boxer as if pain didn't exist.
"I can do this all day!" Rogers gasped defiantly.
His punches were slow and lacked strength, easily blocked by the bully.
"Looks like you haven't learned your lesson!" the brute sneered, delivering another blow to Rogers' nose.
He raised a foot to finish the job with a brutal kick—until a powerful force slammed into him from behind.
The villain let out a cry and stumbled into the wall.
"What kind of neighborhood scum bullies my friends in Brooklyn?" came a cold voice.
The thug turned to see two young men—one in a sharply pressed brown military uniform, the other in a leather jacket.
The one in leather, Luke, stared at him with piercing eyes.
"Luke! This kid was nosy! I didn't even know him—"
Bang!
Luke didn't bother with words. He stepped forward and slammed his fist into the villain's face.
The man toppled to the ground, blood gushing from his nose like an open faucet.
Luke didn't stop there. He raised a booted foot and ground it into the thug's face.
"Wooo... Luke!"
Muddy water and coal ash from the sole seeped into the thug's mouth, mixing with the blood to form a foul stench.
"Get lost. If I catch you bullying my friend again, I might stop by your house for a little 'redecoration,'" Luke growled.
The bloodied thug ran off without a word, too scared to even threaten revenge.
After all, Luke was Frank's nephew—and under the protection of Irish gangsters. Not someone to mess with.
"That's why I told Luke to stay in Brooklyn and look after you," Bucky said as he reached out to help Rogers up, sighing.
"Sometimes I think you like getting beat up. Why else would you keep provoking guys you can't fight?"
Rogers brushed dust off his clothes and took a deep breath.
Only now did the pain register—the burning in his cheeks and swollen eye sockets.
His adrenaline had masked it before, but now...
He definitely needed a doctor.
"You went to the draft station again?" Luke asked, picking up a crumpled draft form from the ground.
Steve Rogers' name was printed on it, though the address had been changed from Brooklyn, New York, to Paramus, New Jersey.
"Falsifying draft forms is illegal, Steve." Luke frowned, rubbing his palms.
Fortunately, years of physical training gave him enough strength to handle the thug.
Luke, Rogers, and Bucky had all grown up in Brooklyn.
Their stories weren't too different.
Both Rogers' parents had died in the war.
His father, a soldier in the 107th Infantry Division, was killed by German mustard gas.
His mother, a nurse in a tuberculosis ward, died after contracting the disease.
In many ways, Steve Rogers fit the tragic hero mold—parents sacrificed to the war effort.
Bucky's story was similar.
His father, also from the 107th, died in a training accident, leaving him to be raised by his mother.
With such shared loss and hardship, the two became inseparable childhood friends.
"I just wanted to do something..." Rogers mumbled, coughing hard.
Aside from being frail, he had mild asthma.
Tight chest, difficulty breathing—his health was never strong.
Sending him to the front lines would be as good as a death sentence.
Every visit to the recruitment office ended the same—rejection.
"You didn't have to be so... fierce, Luke."
Rogers looked up uncertainly.
Luke's frown softened into a grin.
"I had to. Otherwise, there'd be more bullies making our lives hell in Brooklyn."
"Luke's right," Bucky chimed in. "If it weren't for his uncle's rep in the Irish immigrant community, we'd still be getting worked over by those gangsters."
Both he and Rogers had been regular targets—blocked into corners, forced into daily street fights.
Everything changed when they met Luke.
After that, they were the ones cornering others.
To Bucky, Luke wasn't just tough—he was smart.
He came up with ways to make money, exploiting strict base regulations that kept soldiers from leaving.
They'd sneak into barracks and sell things like cigarettes and booze.
Thanks to connections with their parents' old comrades, most people turned a blind eye.
Business was good—until bootleggers took notice.
Luke took initiative, building ties with the Irish community and even sharing some profits to keep things smooth.
"You should stay here and keep the business going," Bucky joked. "When I come back, maybe you'll both be rich—like Howard Stark!"
No one knew how long the war would last.
Civilians prayed for peace.
But opportunists saw it as a goldmine.
Capitalists never missed a chance to grow their fortunes.
Before the U.S. officially entered the war, it sold massive quantities of arms to both Axis and Allied forces.
One major player: Stark Industries.
Howard Stark, with his inventions and sharp mind, won favor with the Department of Defense.
He leveraged his profits to mingle with the elite, securing powerful connections.
In just a few decades, Stark Industries rose to rival old military-industrial giants.
Oil companies also seized the moment, using neutral nations like Switzerland to bypass blockades and supply Germany.
Ford Motor Company went even further, covertly helping build trucks for the Nazis.
Its founder, Henry Ford, was even awarded the Grand Cross—the Nazis' highest medal for foreigners.
Proof that capital knows no allegiance.
Its only goal: profit.
Even after America joined the war, speculators continued plotting behind the scenes.
"I don't have Howard Stark's brain," Luke chuckled.
He turned to Rogers and said, "But if you're really set on joining up, I'll go with you a few more times. Maybe we'll get lucky."
"Really?"
Rogers' face lit up with joy.
Bucky had always opposed his enlistment—leading to several arguments.
Luke rarely voiced his opinion, so his sudden support meant a lot.
Bucky was about to object, but Luke shot him a glance that said, I've got this.
Bucky sighed and said nothing.
He knew Luke never acted without reason.
"Alright!" Bucky grinned. "It's my last night in New York. Are we seriously going to spend it in an alley?"
Tomorrow, he'd ship out—off to war in a foreign land.
Tonight, he had plans.
He'd arranged to meet some beautiful girls and wanted to spend his last hours stateside with his two best friends—indulging in one final night of freedom.