Camp Lehigh, costume design department.
A gray-haired military tailor was proudly displaying his work.
It was a bulky uniform pieced together from bulletproof fibers and canvas.
It was a dull army green, with a crude star spray-painted in white on the chest and back.
"Mr. Morris, for this 'Captain' uniform, we took reference from the latest frontline..."
Lynn took one look, then slapped a stack of design drawings onto the table, his face expressionless.
"Use mine."
He pulled out the top sheet.
The drawing showed a man in a tight-fitting blue-and-red battle suit.
Its lines were sleek, perfectly outlining his muscles.
The white five-pointed star on his chest and the red-and-white stripes across his abdomen were visually striking.
He held an iconic circular shield in his hand.
"What we need is a symbol we can put on posters, one that will drive every child wild."
Lynn tapped the drawing with his fingertip.
"He's a walking American flag."
The tailor and the military liaison beside him exchanged glances.
"But... Mr. Morris, this... this is far too tight. It offers no protection at all, and on the battlefield... it's far too conspicuous!"
"He doesn't need to go to the battlefield. His battlefield is here."
Lynn pointed out the window.
"In the hearts of the people, in every city on the home front."
In the end, under Lynn's insistence as the "chief planner" and his description of the bright prospects for war bonds,
the design, which the military regarded as unorthodox, was forced through.
When Steve Rogers first put on the brand-new suit and stood before a full-length mirror, his handsome face turned bright red.
The skintight suit laid bare every line of his near-perfect musculature, and its flashy red, white, and blue colors made him want to curl his toes into the floor.
"I... I can't wear this."
His voice was hoarse, full of resistance and shame.
For Steve, the first rehearsal was nothing short of a public humiliation.
The stage had been set up as a ruin destroyed by artillery fire.
A group of actors in shoddy Nazi uniforms lunged at him, snarling and waving their arms as the script directed.
According to Lynn's script, he had to "bend" a prop steel bar with his bare hands here.
Then he had to use his shield to "knock down" three enemies with an extremely flashy move.
Steve's movements were utterly stiff.
He could punch through a real steel plate, yet bending a painted rubber rod made him feel a humiliation unlike anything he had ever known.
"Bang!"
He threw the shield to the ground, interrupting the rehearsal.
"I can't do this!"
He growled at Lynn, who stood off to the side and behind the stage.
"This is ridiculous! It's an insult to every real soldier! An insult to this war!"
Every member of the crew fell silent.
Lynn waved his hand, signaling for everyone to leave.
Soon, only he and Steve remained in the vast theater, Steve standing at the center of the stage with his chest heaving.
Lynn didn't argue. He simply walked onto the stage, picked up the shield, and handed it back to Steve.
"What does a wife on a farm in Ohio, who's just received notice that her husband was killed in action, fear most?"
Steve froze.
"What does a worker at a Detroit arsenal, working sixteen hours every day, worry about most?"
Lynn didn't wait for him to answer and continued on his own.
"It's fear, doubt, and the despair hanging over the entire home front. They can't see any hope of victory, only the long lists of casualty figures in the newspapers."
He walked a circle around Steve.
"Do you think you're standing on a stage? No, this is the heart of the United States."
"Do you think you're fighting actors? No, you're fighting despair."
"Every punch you throw shatters a family's fear. Every time you raise your shield, you shelter a city's faith."
"The soldiers on the front lines use bullets to kill the enemy. And you, Captain, your mission is to use hope to kill fear."
Lynn stopped and looked straight into Steve's eyes, where uncertainty was beginning to show.
"Tell me, which enemy is more frightening?"
Steve looked down at the shield in his hand, then at the ridiculous suit he was wearing.
So... that's what this is?
He wasn't a clown. He was an... embodiment of hope.
He tightened his grip on the shield, the humiliation and anger in his eyes replaced by a sacred sense of mission.
Philadelphia, Captain America's first tour performance.
Under the publicity campaign Lynn had planned, slogans such as "the Brooklyn Miracle" and "the Walking Miracle" spread throughout the city via newspapers and radio.
A sea of people packed the area outside the theater, and the atmosphere was feverish.
Lynn stood in the shadows at the side of the stage, calmly directing everything backstage through his headset.
"Lighting crew, spotlight three, get ready!"
"Sound crew, get the 'thunder of artillery' sound effect ready!"
"Narrator, put more emotion into it. Remember, you need to make everyone believe a miracle is happening!"
The curtain rose.
Steve Rogers, Captain America, made his entrance.
He no longer held back, his eyes full of the resolve that came from being entrusted with a sacred mission.
He fought the "Nazis" according to the script.
He bent a steel bar with his bare hands.
He performed all manner of dazzling moves with his shield.
With Lynn's carefully choreographed lighting, explosive sound effects, and highly stirring narration,
what had originally been a comical stage play became a stirring war epic.
The audience watched, enraptured.
What they saw wasn't a performance, but the miracle of a scrawny kid from Brooklyn becoming the nation's guardian.
When Steve used his shield to "knock down" the last Nazi actor, then stood at center stage, holding the shield high as rousing music played,
a beam of pure white light shone down from above, enveloping him.
Behind him, a giant Stars and Stripes billowed and snapped without a breeze.
At that moment, the thousands in the audience erupted into thunderous cheers!
"U-S-A! U-S-A!"
The shouts nearly lifted the roof.
Countless eyes filled with tears.
The people's long-suppressed patriotic fervor had been thoroughly ignited!
After the performance, frenzied crowds packed the war bond sales point outside the theater so tightly that not even a drop of water could have passed through.
Early the next morning, at the Strategic Scientific Reserve's temporary headquarters.
A communications officer rushed in with a telegram.
"General! Everyone! Philadelphia... Philadelphia's war bond sales last night alone... broke the record for Pennsylvania's combined total over the past three months!"
In the meeting room, the assembled senior military officers with generals' stars on their shoulders and government officials in suits were all struck speechless.
They exchanged glances, their expressions turning from shock to elation.
They looked at the young man who had been quietly drinking coffee in the corner as though he were a living god of wealth!
"That's my boy!"
Colonel Davis was the first to react. He slapped Lynn hard on the shoulder and said with a broad grin, "I take back what I said! You're not running a circus, you're fucking printing money!"
An official from the Department of the Treasury seized Lynn's hand.
"Mr. Morris! A nationwide tour! It has to be a nationwide tour! The budget is no issue. Whatever you need, we'll approve it!"
A modest smile appeared on Lynn's face.
"I'm only fulfilling Dr. Erskine's final wish."
The meeting ended.
Everyone left with satisfied smiles.
Lynn returned to his temporary office, picked up the phone on his desk, and dialed a number in Switzerland.
The call connected, and a respectful, steady voice came from the other end.
"Sir."
Lynn looked at the financial report on the Philadelphia performance.
His gaze fell on an inconspicuous entry at the bottom: "publicity and event expenses."
With a pen, he added another "0" to the end of the figure.
"Transfer that amount into the seed account as the first installment of publicity funds."
Lynn's tone was calm.
"Also, use ten percent of that money to begin buying up the scattered shares of Stark Industries in outside circulation. Remember, use different shell companies. Don't draw anyone's attention."
"Understood, sir."
After hanging up, Lynn casually tossed the report into the shredder.
The so-called "expenses" were nothing more than a kickback he had legally taken from the total war bond sales in his capacity as "planner."