"Justice has nothing to do with victor nations

and vanquished nations, but must be a moral standard that

all the world's peoples can agree to."

- Hideki Tojo

media:

"Please Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone"

by Frank Sinatra

V-Mail; January 29, 1942

Dear Steve,

I'm the luckiest man in the world, and I'm sure as hell not going to complain about it!

A transfer request was wired to the North Carolina for a seaman with expertise on the 20s mounts to be sent back to the States for the commission of a new ship. The transfer's more of an extended shore leave, really, so I'll train some boots in the morning and have the afternoons all to myself in sunny San Francisco. So many seamen qualified for the transfer that they filled the mess hall. The married men were particularly anxious when the name was called.

Every eligible sailor dropped their name in a hat, and the boatswain's mate stirred them up for effect. There must have been a hundred names in that hat, maybe, more, and guess who got called? Your old buddy Clint Barton, that's who! I ship out the SS Lurline, which used to be a ship for fancy folk who dared to traverse the high seas, so I'll be in the lap of luxury all my way back to the States.

An added bonus: the SS Lurline does not have any 20-millimeter guns, so I'll be lounging around all the way back. My own little slice of heaven.

The married guys didn't take so kindly to my transfer, since they thought it was unfair a single guy was getting to head back. I say tough luck!

Your comic books, which the boys follow religiously whenever mail comes in, have your schedule in the back. I saw you're going to San Francisco as well. We should meet up and get a picture – they guys back on the ship won't believe it when I show them – and catch up sometime. Captain America and a dashing sailor strolling the streets of town should catch the eyes of some city girls, what do you think?

Things are quite boring back on the North Carolina, so this leave is a welcome respite from endless training and kitchen duty and the same card games over and over again. A guy could pick up smoking and die from it before he even fired his gun at a real Japanese. You'd better make things interesting for me once I get back to America, or I'll be sorely disappointed. Wherever you go, an adventure seems to follow.

Wishing you all the best,

Barton

P.S. Sabin's ship sank in the Battle of Guadalcanal. I saw it go down myself. We Reuben James boys are really thinning out, aren't we?

San Francisco, California; February 13, 1942

Steve didn't have to go out of his way to make San Francisco interesting – the city did all the work for him.

The Californian streets were a whirlwind of activity and color. Brightly colored cars zoomed down horribly crooked lanes, tropical flowers dangled from windows, and the distinctive colors of uniforms stood out from the crowds of pastel dresses. His show sold out with visitors spilling into the streets, one of the biggest ones yet. Talbert had made him hoist a motorcycle with a few of the dancing girls on top of it while lights whirled and spun around the room, giving the feat a superhuman quality. The cheering didn't stop until a full hour after the curtain fell. Clint's white sailor's uniform stuck out in his seat on the front row, which Steve had personally secured for him, his telltale ironic smile grinning up at Steve as he continued the standing ovation.

Back in civilian clothes, however, 'Captain America' was just another guy on the street. Steve and Clint visited all the sights three times over, searched for the best bar in town (on Barton's request, not his personal favorite), and went to the movies every day. If they both wore their military uniforms, tickets and all the popcorn they could eat came free.

By all accounts Clint was doing well, his hair bleached and skin tanned from their daily deck training. They had long discussions into the night over soda pop and scotch about everything from daily life to the politics of war. It was during these late-night conversations that the sailor truly opened up to Steve about the trail of wreckage he felt he was leaving in his wake.

"I think of them every day," he admitted as he sipped his drink. "They were like brothers to me, and now they're gone. Life moves on, I guess, but sometimes I don't want to. Look at me, actin' like a kid and all. It's just... I hate the guys who killed them with all my soul, but I don't know if I can kill a man again."

Steve was impressed by Clint's composure and strength of character. His best friends had been killed when the Reuben James went down, and his surviving buddy's ship had sunk before his own eyes. And here he stood, all smiles and jokes and his regular roughhousing self. How he could withstand such tragedy and still carry on was beyond Steve. Clint Barton had to be the strongest man he knew.

This morning wasn't dedicated to hitting the town, however. Steve's duty as the chief marketing tool for the war effort demanded that he attend an early meeting in the city hall between Secretary of State Cordell Hull and ambassador Admiral Nomura Kichisaburo. The two men had met in the previous two years discussing some hope for avoiding war, but nothing had come of their discussions. These talks were designed to bring up the idea of a peaceful settlement and avoid the capture of Japanese-captured islands, which would turn into bloodbaths for both sides.

Clint made one thing clear to Steve as they walked the sunny streets towards the city hall – the possibility to avoid further war was immense.

"The Japanese navy's already shot to shit," he informed Steve in his usual tactful manner, "After Midway and Guadalcanal all their best ships were sunk. Their soldiers are getting cut off from their supply lines as we advance, and bombs are falling like rain on our next targets courtesy of the flyboys. They've gotta know they can't win this war.

"Besides, I hear some of the stuff the Marines say when they hear word from their buddies who invade those islands. It's like another world in there, all jungle and Japanese troops who'll keep coming at you after you've put twenty bullets in 'em. Heard they're starving so they eat American troops for nourishment. It's unnatural, that's what." Clint shuddered. "If these guys can make some kind of deal, maybe a few less guys have to go to that green hell."

A local paper informed Steve on what he didn't know about Nomura: he was well-respected for trying to secure peace at all costs, even after war had been declared (indeed, he had delivered Japan's declaration of war himself.) He had been recently released from internment and was prepared to make a last-ditch effort for the benefit of both countries. The event caused quite a stir in San Francisco, and the city hall was packed with a mix of protesters and interested city-dwellers craning their necks to get a glimpse of the Japanese ambassador.

Steve had a pass for clearance, and he felt bad about leaving Clint at the gates, but the sailor assured him that he would be fine. "I'll get to hear the news as soon as it comes out! How bad can it be?" He assured Steve. "Go look tough and make them quiver in their boots."

Clint's last statement confirmed a small fear of Steve's as a uniformed soldier waved him through the doors – he didn't want to be used as a strong-arming tool, make to show off the best America could offer. The Secretary of State himself had asked for Steve to accompany him in his best dress uniform, and he would look a rather impressive sight before the Japanese. Steve was the collector of politics, he supposed, whose job it was to look tough and pressure his target into doing what he wanted. It wasn't a pleasant idea.

A single table sat at the center of the city hall's rotunda, around which a great number of politicians and soldiers were milling about. Japanese uniforms formed a block of white against one of the curving walls, standing as perfectly still as statues, while American soldiers talked among themselves and eyed their opponents with thinly veiled distrust. At the center of this group were the two leading figures of the morning: Nomura and Hull, exchanging a handshake and a familiar smile. When the two sat down the crowd dispersed to the sides of the room, taking their seats at a bank of chairs meant for observation. The Japanese sailors stood.

"I must first address a topic that has come to light with increasingly strong evidence as this unfortunate war progresses." Hull began, his voice clear in the near-silence of the rotunda. "The interrogation and torture techniques used by the Japanese army is in a direct violation of the Geneva Conventions, if our evidence is to be believed. Have you heard anything from your superiors of the matter?"

Nomura daubed at his forehead with a handkerchief before replying, his face a pleasant mask of composure. "I was quite sure you were going to ask that question, Secretary. To ease your worries, I have brought some American prisoners of war from Burma to demonstrate the effects of Japanese hospitality. I am sure their experience will be quite to your satisfaction." His hand rose in a sharp gesture to the rightmost sailor against the wall, who stepped away from the group and exited through one of the doors in the rotunda. Emerging soon afterward, he held the door open for five men in clean Japanese uniforms, unshaven but otherwise the image of perfect health and cleanliness.

When they raised their heads Steve's heart stopped. He couldn't breathe, the voices of the ambassador and the whispers of the military men behind him fading to a dull hum below the pounding of his own blood in his ears. Because standing before him on the floor of the rotunda, eyes downcast and unwilling to meet those of his Japanese captors, was James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve's mind fumbled for an explanation – had the Repulse been sunk and he hadn't known? How could he not know that his best friend was in Japanese hands? His eyes sought Bucky's, but the latter refused to remove his gaze from his shoes, head hunched slightly. Nomura's voice snapped back into focus, drawing Steve's attention away from the POW's and back to the officials.

"... Captured in Burma and treated with the greatest hospitality. As you can see, they are clean and well-fed, yet still under Japanese control. They will not be bargained for, Secretary. Tell me, Airman Barnes, how has your treatment been in Burma?"

Bucky cleared his throat before he began, head drooping down. His voice seemed shattered to Steve, dull and resigned and lacking and of its characteristic charisma Steve had known all his life. The sound twisted his heart. "They treat us very well. No complaints can be given."

The presence of the prisoners caused quite a stir on the rotunda floor. Whispers spread like wildfire through the seated sections, with snippets of Japanese and a glut of English swearing reaching Steve's ears. His eyes were firmly fixed on Bucky, hands behind his back and eyes locked on the tile floor. Bucky had always been the one cocky enough to spit in the face of his enemy. What had gone wrong? What did they do to him?

"You know the Japanese army and navy better than anyone. Is there any possibility of settlement? Surely the navy knows it cannot continue a war in this manner." Hull's voice was almost contemptuous as he leaned forward towards the table.

"I know it, Secretary, but the military refuses to believe it. The ships and the sailors, they are gyokusai – crushed jewels for the Emperor, infinite is his wisdom and grace. They have a mission to extend the great empire of Japan, and they are blind to their shortcomings."

"They, not you?" Hull crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.

"I am a realist, Secretary. I understand our capabilities, which is why I am meeting with you today. Now, may we continue? Dismissed." Nomura gestured to the leading sailor, who led the POWs back through the door and out of sight.

"Excuse me," Steve whispered to the men next to him, leaping from his seat and rushing out of the stifling silence of the rotunda. Bucky was somewhere in the building, guarded by a few Japanese soldiers, and Steve had to reach him.

A door creaked open down the hallway, the same ornate wooden carvings gracing its surface that had faced the interior of the rotunda, and a small squadron of Japanese sailors emerged. The five prisoners followed them, heads continually bowed as they shuffled forward after their captors. A derisive laugh sounded from the group as one of the sailors aimed a kick at the last POW, sending him staggering to the side. They mustn't have noticed Steve standing to the side – the hallway was otherwise deserted. When the politicians were out of sight their cruelty could again resurface.

Steve followed the group from a safe distance, trailing after them as they rounded the hallway about the rotunda and entered a small room marked with the placard of the Japanese flag and Nomura's name. The door thudded shut and Steve ran up next to it, pressing his body against the stone and leaning his ear toward the doorjamb.

Hushed Japanese voices bled through the crack between the door and the wall. Steve's heart pounded in his chest, but he forced any nerves aside and lashed out his leg in a kick that blew the door off its hinges. Before the soldiers could even turn to inspect the noise Steve was upon them.

The first turned too slowly, looking around to see Steve's forearm rise to meet his face. He was thrown backward by a forward jab and crumpled against the wall like a rag doll. The second and third soldiers shouted something in Japanese, drawing their rifles from their backs. Lunging forward, Steve grabbed the first rifle by the barrel and tightened his fist, feeling the metal crumple between his fingers. He wheeled the ruined gun above his head and brought it around into the temple of the second soldier, who fell to the ground with a groan. The third soldier fixed his bayonet and jabbed the spear towards Steve, who ducked and rolled underneath the flash of steel. Steve's ankles swept the soldier from his feet, and a well-placed punch knocked him out of action.

The fourth and fifth soldiers, to their credit, stood their ground. One pressed the end of his rifle against the forehead of one of the American POW's and babbled something in a foreign language. Steve didn't speak Japanese, but the frantic message was clear: move and he dies.

Hands raised in the air, Steve studied the scenario before him. He had no weapons to fight the two armed soldiers with, and the lives of the POW's were on the line. If he wanted to act, he would have to act fast. The fourth Japanese soldier was barking out another order when Steve struck, springing forward and tackling the man to the ground. As he jumped his legs planted against the fifth soldier's chest, sending him careening backward. The rifle clattered to the ground, harmless.

Once they realized they had been liberated, the American POW's finished the job for him. The last two soldiers were unconscious before Steve could even get to his feet. The Americans looked around the ruined room, eyes wide and staring as they gaped at their savior. A shrill alarm spoiled the moment, however, and above the whines of the alert came the pounding of boots in the direction of the room. Someone had triggered the emergency system. Steve would have to get the POW's out before the Japanese reclaimed them.

"Come on!" He called, snatching the butt of the broken rifle and driving it through the glass of the window. The room was on the first story of the city hall, so it wouldn't be a long jump. Eyeing the prisoners, however, Steve couldn't be sure if their physical shape would permit a daring escape.

"You heard the man!" One of the prisoners called, drawing himself to his feet and running for the window. "Let's go!"

The hammering of footsteps pounded louder in Steve's ears, and he hurried the prisoners through the window. As they ran they tore off their Japanese uniforms and dispersed into the thick crowds around the building, which were growing more chaotic by the moment as alarms whooped over their murmurs. The last POW gripped Steve's arm and pulled him back from the window. His eyes were wild, his face harrowed and his twisted expression unfamiliar, but there was no doubt who was standing before Steve at the moment. Sunken eyes blinked in confusion as Bucky surveyed his liberator.

"No, it can't be... Steve?"

"In the flesh," Steve replied, "And you have to get out of here."

"I thought you were shorter."

"I joined the Army."

"Oh, so that explains it!" Bucky's fingers tightened on his sleeve. "Why are you doing this?"

Voices rang closer in the hallway – soon they would be at the ruined doorway. "Look, Buck, I'll explain later. If you don't want to end up in a Japanese prison camp, I'd recommend you get out of here now!"

His head dipped up and down in a nod, and Bucky leaped through the window with Steve on his tail. Both dove into the cover of the crowd as angry voices clamored from the broken window, followed by sharp commands in Japanese. The soldiers who surrounded the gates now began to disperse into the crowd as well, making a beeline for the broken window. The howling alarm wailed against the ravenous whispers that spread through the crowd. As he reached the edge of the masses Steve couldn't help but release a long-held sigh of relief.

Bucky was safe.

He returned to Clint's hotel that night to find the sailor packing.

"You're leaving already? I thought your leave was for two weeks."

"I was. I'm going back." The bitter reply was a shock, and Steve leaned his shoulder on the door jamb.

"What's going on?"

Clint tilted his head toward the small table, where a newspaper's title page screamed the headline AMERICAN POW'S RESCUED FROM CITY HALL: PEACE TALKS END IN FURY. Reaching for the paper, Steve thumbed through the article with shock. All the excitement and adrenaline of the morning escape left his body in an instant, replaced with the general feeling of being sucker-punched in the gut.

"This says –"

"Nomura ended the discussion. The Japanese government issued a decree affirming the state of war with the United States. No more peace talks. No more hope for a settlement. It's over." Clint shook his head, eyes flashing with contempt.

"And this is my fault somehow?"

"Do you think I'm a fuckin' idiot? Jesus Christ, Rogers, who else do you know who would bust into a room full of Japanese soldiers, steal their prisoners of war and escape?"

Steve shook his head, the first clutches of fear gripping his stomach. "You know that's not what I meant..."

A derisive snort followed as Clint stuffed his belongings into his sea bag, back still turned to Steve. Anger tugged at Steve's mind, but he held his tongue as he watched the sailor pull the last of his things into his luggage.

"I don't understand why you're angry. I rescued those men! You should have seen them – it's like they weren't even people anymore, all skin and bones. They would have died without me!"

"They haven't recovered the POW's yet, but the Japanese government doesn't care so much about that. For every one of the men that fled today, Japan has vowed to send a hundred thousand more back to the States in caskets." Clint wheeled on Steve, rage burning from every ounce of his being. Fists clenched, eyes wild, he brandished a finger at Steve as if it were a weapon. "You don't get it, do you? No more peace talks! You know how many soldiers you've just sentenced to death? You know how many boys you're sending off to their graves, just because you couldn't resist playing the hero?"

"I was not playing the hero!" Steve's jaw slackened with shock, but Clint wasn't done with his tirade. He paced to the side, drawing a hand through his hair and releasing a sarcastic laugh.

"We've got Marines on board, and they know what goes on on those islands. The war seems all nice and cozy from your high horse, Captain America, but they know what it feels like to walk across a field of bodies that have been carved up for Japanese supper. They know what it's like to crawl over beaches soaked in the blood of their best friends. They know what it's like to have everyone they know and love stripped away from them one at a time, and you can't dupe yourself into thinking it will be all right for a second, because then another one's gone. Don't you get that?" He roared, and Steve stepped back with his hands raised in defense.

"You care more about your friends than the good of the war. Who's it gonna be next? Hell, what if it's me? How many more have to die, Steve? How much blood is on your hands?"

Steve's hands were trembling, so he forced them into his pockets. "Clint, I –"

"Get out of here, Rogers. I never want to see your face again as long as I live." Clint seethed, and Steve knew in that moment he meant it.

Boots - Sailors in training

(I appreciate all of your feedback? What do you think about this new twist?)