"If you want to succeed in the world,

you don't have to be much cleverer than other people.

You just have to be one day earlier."

- Leo Szilard

media:

"Paper Doll"

by the Mills Brothers

Dear Seaman Barton,

I am glad you are in high spirits on the North Carolina, which seems as nice a ship as any from the papers I've read. I am envious of your freedom and practically everything about your situation, as it is the polar opposite of mine at the moment.

As glamorous as life seems in the world of Captain America, it's beginning to wear on me. At the same time, it's a good sort of wear, a tiredness from doing a worthy work. I'm paraded around the country and sing a little ditty to bring in money for the Army. There are worse situations to be in. Talbert even had the ingenious idea to throw Adolph Hitler in the mix, so now I get to punch the German Fuhrer every time a show comes on. It gives the kids a laugh, and now I can proclaim to new acquaintances that I've punched Hitler in the face. Try telling that to your new Navy friends!

For a kid that had never been out of New York, this trip has brought me around the States at a breakneck speed. I've flown from coast to coast, driven through the Midwestern plains with a bus full of showgirls behind me and two tons of Captain America merchandise lashed to the van above me, and I feel as if I've seen every nook and cranny America has to offer. I've performed on top of an overturned bucket in Nebraska (that was a concert to remember) and in the largest performance halls the U.S. Of A has to offer, punching Hitler all the while. An exhilarating experience!

One tires of the same old script after a while, and I have to wonder if it's really true. I've been told I'm just a mouthpiece for the U.S. Army, which I am a ranking captain in, yet I feel as if even the Army can overstate some things and add a bit of drama to the show. Never let it be said I'm regretting my decision, though, as this trip has been quite the adventure and I'm more than happy to do it ten times over!

To answer your inquiry, I reached out to Colonel Philips about the Reuben James and was met with a wall. He insisted that he had no sway over the Navy's affairs, and rather stiffly informed me to keep my eyes on my own shiny red boots and the bond sales flowing in. The most I could scrounge up in the local paper was this cartoon, posted in a small-town publication in Maryland. 

It is dreadful that I couldn't find any more information on you about our friends, and for that I apologize sincerely. I will continue to pull strings as long as I am able, believe me.

As for your insight on Tony, I really couldn't say. The man is a mystery. In fact, I haven't seen him or heard word of him since he stormed out of Casablanca in a huff. I guess some mysteries just aren't meant to be solved. The truth will be revealed in time.

They're calling that I'm supposed to be on stage now, so I'll sign off here. Don't forget to write back soon!

Steve Rogers

The Stark Mansion, Upstate New York; May 12, 1942

The boots were insufferable. No matter how many towels Tony stuffed into the boxy soles, they always pinched at his toes, and his feet would blister from the sweltering heat of the thrusters directly beneath his heels. Nevertheless, he was flying, which was pretty remarkable in and of itself, wounded feet or not.

The suit was his most prized possession, one that hadn't existed until Howard had placed him under house arrest. It had always been a nice fantasy to think about but never put into action. Part of this had been sheer rationality – Howard might snatch up the suits and stuff soldiers into them, mass-producing Tony's pride and joy with cheap steel and slapping American flags onto them. Part of this, however, was pride. Tony had always shown off the best of his designs to potential customers, but this was a creation in a league of its own. The suit was a mechanical marvel, on the bleeding edge of technological capacity, so much so that Tony was shooting in the dark with some of his own personal innovations he had never seen done before.

When completed, it would enshroud the body in hyperlight reinforced steel and vibranium (courtesy of Howard, although he didn't know of his 'donation' quite yet), rigorously segmented to allow for a maximum range of movement. Twin thrusters fit into the elevated soles and also on the hands, to provide a secondary outlet for stability during flight. The sleek body of the suit was streamlined and smooth, more of a bullet than then a tank, but equally as deadly. A whole host of secret weapons could hide in a variety of compartments and customizable defensive measures could be implanted with a click.

Tony knew as he worked that he was onto something new. This would be the next big thing in modern warfare – not super-soldiers with shields or artillery of tanks, as his suit could easily withstand blows from all three. And this was precisely why he had to work in such secrecy. Only someone who was deaf and dumb, so most likely Howard, would be foolish enough to look at Tony's plans and not begin to imagine an inkling of the capacity for power it held. This was Tony's ticket into the big leagues, but one that he wasn't willing to surrender quite yet.

As it happened, he decided to make a prototype for himself in the sprawling underground complex the mansion squatted over. Howard provided Tony with the finest tools, mechanisms and technical assistance in the hopes he would begin to work on missiles or magically summon up the desire to help the war effort. Little did he know Tony was crafting the greatest weapon known to mankind.

Once the suit was finished, no one would remember Howard Stark anymore. Tony wouldn't have to sulk in the shadow of his father's grandeur anymore. Tony Stark would be a household name, and he relished the thought of it.

The trickiest part had been assembling the prototype suit in the first place. He had begun from the ground up, crafting the thrusters by hand and fitting them carefully into the heels of the skeleton-like metal boots that extended up past Tony's ankles. The rods were rigid steel, since Tony didn't want to waste the precious little vibranium he had managed to pilfer on a prototype, and their lack of flexibility had nearly led to his breaking both ankles on many occasions. Once the oxygen and alcohol chambers had been fueled and the power lines were fitted into the steel struts, he was ready to fly.

Tony's first ascent was made in the manner of a very unbalanced ballerina, clinging to a bar on the wall as he tested out the power of the thrust engines. His preliminary trial had sent him head-first into a filing cabinet, leaving a rather nasty dent in the uppermost shelf, and he had to scale back the energy to single-digit percentages to manage sustained indoor flight. He emerged from the testing room that afternoon smelling faintly of something burnt, but he was triumphant.

Every trial presented new challenges to tackle, such as stabilizers to keep his feet upright and the addition of flaps directly in the stream of fire to make minute changes to flight patterns. Additional thrust engines, each half the size of a pencil, emitted miniature pinpricks of flame to automatically right the boots in midair.

Some of the technicians of Howard's payroll were beginning to give him strange looks as he carted full boxes of supplies out of their storerooms and returned with nothing to show for them. So long as they didn't intrude on his business, Tony could hardly mind. Let them think what they think, he thought as he picked himself up from the concrete after a particularly wretched trial, and I'll see the looks on their faces when I fly straight into the center of Berlin and toast Herr Hitler with the jets on my shoes.

He didn't choose Hitler for any specific reason but that the German was all anyone seemed to talk about these days, and Tony would get the most publicity if he turned him into barbecue. Nothing against the man, of course. He hoped the Chancellor would understand.

It was after one such botched trial when the pounding of footsteps sounded down the flight of steps into Tony's secluded studio. In an effort to be as careful as possible, he had installed a small laser tripwire on the fourth step that would alert Jarvis when the beam was broken. A small red light spun in the corner, his signal that an intruder was arriving.

Tony leaped into action, then was thrown against the far wall as he accidentally activated the thruster in his right foot that sent him in an ungainly backflip. Tugging the power lines from the boots, he dragged a tarp across his table, which also concealed the master copy of the suit's designs, and was busy wrenching off one of the boots when Howard stormed in.

"Dad!" Tony beamed, leaping to his feet. The left boot, still firmly attached to his foot, released a wheezing cough and trickled ash from the heel.

"I trust you've been keeping productive, then?" Howard crossed his arms, eyeing Tony's curious footwear with disdain. "What's this?"

Tony's mind went terrifyingly blank. His lips flapped for a moment without releasing a sound, then he stumbled for a response. "Um, well, father, these are for the President."

"Roosevelt? Whatever on earth would he need with such ugly things?" Howard sneered, and Tony bowed his head in the impression of solemnity.

"Well, sir, you know how walking is so difficult for our brave leader. I only thought, maybe he might want to look more powerful on these foreign trips, now that war is on. So I was working on this apparatus to help guide and support him while he walks. I've only reached the point of reinforcing the ankles."

Even Tony was surprised how easily the lie slipped from his tongue. Tilting his head to the side, Howard surveyed the boots in a new light. If Tony's eyes weren't deceiving him, he detected a moisture around his father's eyes. Hopefully any tears would obscure the fact that the boots had fire-belching thrusters on them that would light Roosevelt's pants on fire.

"A noble gift. When did you become such a philanthropist?"

"One of my many good traits," Tony smiled, and his father nodded in a brisk manner.

"My scientists had been expression doubt about your progress, but I am pleased to see you have moved beyond even my own expectations of growth. A gift to the President, and from you of all people!" he moved forward as if to ruffle Tony's hair, then thought the best of it halfway through the motion. "Keep up the good work, and I look forward to seeing the progress you will make on this endeavor."

Tony fought to keep a straight face. Progress you will make on this endeavor – who even talked like that anymore? "Right. Yes."

Turning to leave, Howard glanced back over his shoulder and paused with a hand on the doorframe. "Oh, by the way, have you seen vibranium that's been misplaced? Our records indicate some has gone missing."

"Can't say that I have," Tony shrugged, dragging his sweaty palms down his slacks when Howard turned away. The chorus of groaning stairs sounded after his father as he hurried back the way he had come.

Tony slumped against the wall, releasing a long-held breath and tapping the tip of his shoe against the concrete floor. Another burst of ash trickled from the thruster. "Time to move on to step two," he whispered as he dragged the right boot back towards his foot. "Sorry, Frankie, but you won't be getting one of these for Christmas."

(Thank you so much, as always, for reading! Your feedback is always appreciated!)