Chapter Title: Part of the Show

Author: Sam

Story: The Omega Trials: 19 of ?

Series: The Omega Rights (part two)

Note:

Setting: AU: June 22, 1943; Brooklyn, New York, United States of America

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Translations:

(none)

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Setting: AU: Tuesday, June 22, 1943: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America

Peggy sat in the backseat on Steve's left, watching out the front of the private military car. She listened as Steve seemed to almost reminisce about being beaten to a pulp in several locations. Finally, she turned to him with an incredulous look. "Do you have something against running away?"

Steve shook his head, mouthing 'no' without sound then said, "you start running, they'll never let you stop. You stand up, you push back. They can't say no forever, right?"

Peggy nodded, "I know a little of what that's like, to have every door shut in your face. Does your friend hold you back, as well?"

"Bucky?" Steve looked over at Peggy and shook his head, "No . . . he always patched me up and told me how stupid I was to get in a fight with someone twice my size . . . but he was the one that helped train me when I said I wanted to join the military right after Hawaii was hit."

"He sounds like an amazing friend, Steve." She looked over at him. "Did he sign up immediately?"

"Well . . . no. We promised each other we would sign up together . . . but obviously I didn't get in until Erskine gave me my chance. Bucky was drafted." Steve answered honestly, talking about his husband made his heart ache.

"He trained you . . . did he teach you other things? Dancing perhaps?" She offered a small smile to the small blond, trying to alleviate the sadness she heard and saw in him.

Steve laughed, "Women aren't exactly lining up to dance with a guy they might step on. But Bucky always dragged me to clubs and whatnot."

Peggy continued to smile. "You must have danced?"

Shrugging his small shoulders, Steve smiled and said, "the past few years, it just didn't seem to matter that much. - - figured I'd wait."

"For what?" she asked softly, her voice low enough not to be overheard by the driver.

Steve nodded and answered back in a whisper, "The right partner."

Peggy smiled and nodded.

The car pulled up to the curb in front of a nondescript building. The pair got out of the car and Peggy led Steve into the building next door, 'Brooklyn Antiques,' instead. Unsure why they'd be stopping on the way to his procedure, Steve silently followed. A discussion about the weather turned out to be some secret code to get them into a hidden area behind the storeroom. Several military policemen guarded the corridor and then the pair, agent and recruit, walked into what could only be called a secret laboratory, like in the penny novels Steve read at times.

Taking a steadying breath, Steve followed Peggy around the railing and down the steps to the sunken, machine-filled area containing a very cold looking metal bed. In the lab stood Doctor Erskine talking with none other than the inventor and scientist, Howard Stark. The doctor turned toward Steve with a smile and walked over to greet him. A reporter took a picture, causing the doctor to snap in irritation. The man with the camera backed away instantly while Steve tried to blink away the the black spots from the flash.

With a return to his gentle smile, Abraham said, "are you ready?" When Steve nodded, too overwhelmed to speak due to the buzz of activity all around them. The doctor nodded in return. "Good." He led the blond into the central pit and over to the table.

There, checking come readings on one of the many incomprehensible machines stood the inventor and scientist, Howard Stark. The man seemed suave and self-assured, in complete control, handsome, and very much the paint of focus to many in the room. Steve smiled at the sight of the inventor, remembering the night of the expo not to long ago. Just that thought made the small blond long for his husband even more.

Howard turned and smiled, eyes friendly. "Hello. You must be Steven Rogers? Howard Stark." He held out his hand, confidence and friendliness emanating almost like a welcome scent from the man.

Shaking Howard's hand firmly, Steve offered him a kind smile, "It's a pleasure, Mr. Stark."

"Howard," the man corrected, smiling, and turned to begin warming up his machines.

"Steven," Doctor Erskine interrupted, "remove your shirt, tie, belt, hat, shoes, and socks . . . anything restrictive. Unfasten your trousers just in case." He offered a sheepish smile at the over-sized uniform Steve had never managed to get the tailors to fully correct.

Doing as ordered, Steve carefully folded and lay his shirt on a nearby lab chair to join his hat and tie. The small blond flushed, not meeting anyone's eyes, as he unfastened his belt and slipped it from the loops, dropping it carefully on his shirt. He removed his shoes and socks, lining them up as carefully as he ever had. He took a breath then unfastened his trousers, using a hand to keep them up. As he stepped towards the central metal and leather table, a once familiar red-haired doctor stepped into the circular depression of the lab.

"Are you wearing any jewelry, watch? Ring?" the redhead asked and Steve froze for a moment, staring at the familiar seeming doctor.

Finally, the words sunk in. Fumbling, Steve reached below his undershirt to pull out the silver chain with his wedding ring still clasped securely on it. "Just this," he muttered softly, hand protectively grasping the small tie he had to his secret husband fighting overseas.

The doctor looked towards Howard Stark and asked, rather loudly, "chain and ring, Mister Stark?"

Without looking up, Howard shook his head. "No metal bits. Sorry. Might burn the skin."

Steve's fingers clasped tighter over his ring. If he died, he wanted to die still wearing Bucky's ring . . . still linked to the man he loved. A movement from the corner of his eye drew the blond's worried gaze. Peggy.

She held out a hand and smiled softly, her eyes relaying the understanding of just how precious that simple seeming token really was. "I'll keep it safe for you, Steve," she said, softly. "Make sure you get it back."

Drawing a deep breath, feeling an aching tightness in his lower lungs, Steve nodded and slipped the chain from around his throat. He handed the jewelry to Peggy, his blue eyes meeting and holding hers for a long minute. "It's all I have," he said, and she nodded.

With a sharp nod of return, Peggy claimed, just a bit louder, "we should all honor our parents, Steve." It wasn't a lie - - just misdirection, and Steve was grateful for her cleverness.

Finally, the small, skinny blond used a provided step stool to climb onto the over-sized bed. Once ready, Steve watched as scientists or doctors or both rushed around, the redhead strapping him to the table as Doctor Erskine turned to make a speech about the process and goals, using a microphone so those in the viewing area, Peggy joining them, could hear. Men in military uniforms, reporters, and a politician or two stood watching with stern, almost disapproving expressions. Peggy looked like she tried to hide worry.

The red-haired doctor readied a rather impressive hypodermic needle and gave Steve a burning shot in his upper left arm. It hurt, but he'd had a lot worse, and so was surprised that Doctor Erskine had said the injections would be painful. "That wasn't so bad," he clarified for those close by.

Abraham gave him a rueful shrug. "That was penicillin."

Several large mechanical wings closed over Steve's arms and legs as the table shifted, the topp rising and the feet staying still, so that the table soon stood on end. Suddenly several large needles punctured each limb and Steve couldn't find the breath to scream, too shocked by the overwhelming burning pain. The entire wall of the machine enclosed him in a huge tube.

A metallic knock came from the front of the tube, about level with Steve's sweat-drenched face. "Steven? Are you alright?"

Without really thinking, Steve gasped out "I guess it's too late to go to the bathroom?" He hadn't needed to go before those shots, and he certainly didn't need to go now . . . but he wondered just how much more he had to take before they let him go rest and recuperate. That's always what he'd had to do in the past: get treatment and shots then go sleep for a day or so.

A small chuckle sounded from near the tube, but not in front, and Steve smiled softly to himself. Well, if this treatment killed him, he could have probably had worse last words. Maybe he'd have enough energy to come up with something better in a few minutes.

"And the potassium and nitramine will be triggered by the vita-rays . . . " Doctor Erskine's voice came more as a whisper, signaling that he spoke to Steve directly not into the microphone, but the rest was cut off by the intense pain shooting throughout Steve's body.

Steve had tried to hold in the screams that wanted to break past his lips, but after the pain only seemed to get worse, he let out a loud scream. It felt like his body was being ripped apart and put back together again, all the muscles and bones seemed to burn with a fiery pain.

Sounding worried, almost desperate, Peggy Carter's voice broke through his pain, "shut it down! Get him out of there!"

"No!" Steve suddenly shouted, "No! I can do this!"

Apparently they listened because the pain increased until finally the world went dark. As the tube slowly opened, it became apparent that Steve had not, in fact, passed out or gone blind - - and everyone seemed a bit shorter than just moments before.

Peggy stepped forward; no longer three inches taller than him, she stood maybe half a foot shorter! She hesitated then lay a hand on his chest and sighed, a small smile of wonder crossing her pretty features. "How . . . how do you feel, Steve?" her voice broke slightly and she signaled to a nurse behind her to hand her a blanket.

Taking a deep breath, Steve smiled at Peggy before answering, "Taller."

If the last half hour had moved quickly, the next few minutes flew by in a blink and dragged so long it felt a year crept by. The lab blew up, shots rang out, and Abraham Erskine lay on the ground, bleeding in Steve's arms.

The doctor pointed at Steve's chest then seemed to shrink as his eyes glossed over and remained staring fixedly at nothing.

Later Steve would hash and rehash his actions: running after the assassin, Peggy shooting the retreating car, eventually catch up to the man, but being unable to stop his suicide by cyanide, and the long, angry, frustrated trudge back to the destroyed lab.

There, Colonel Phillips spoke to a man in a suit. Noticing Steve, he frowned and signaled the recruit over to the remaining waiting doctor. The redhead smiled nervously at Steve. "Mister Rogers? You might not remember me . . ." he began.

"No, Sir. I'm sorry, I don't." Steve answered honestly, still feeling the reeling loss of Doctor Erskine.

Nodding and sighing, the man patted the now table once more positioned lying down. "I need to draw blood and take scans, please, Mister Rogers? How do you feel? Any abdominal cramping?"

Steve blinked and looked down, mind seeming to clear a little, dredging up a name from a couple years ago., "Doctor Johnson?"

Christopher smiled and nodded. "Yes. You do recall me? How are you feeling?"

"I'm sorry . . ." Steve felt horrible for not recognizing the doctor.

The redhead moved precisely, efficiently, as he drew several tubes of blood and let Howard Stark use his mysterious machines to run what he called 'scans.' Finally, the inventor offered a troubled look at Steve, reviewing the scans that he alone could read. Christopher, however, patted Steve's arm. "So, feel different? Stronger? Breath easier?" he sounded hopeful.

"Yeah . . . I feel great," Steve said with a sad smile.

Christopher nodded. "We'll need samples," the doctor glanced over at the Colonel and flushed a bit. "To verify that all of the desired results occurred. Abraham did explain what he hoped to achieve here?" Doctor Johnson suddenly gulped several times, his adam's apple bobbing as he choked on the confused grief. "We need a tissue sample and . . . we need you to fill a couple of specimen cups?" He looked back at Steve, trying to ignore the scowling officer.

"Yes, of course. Anything you need." Steve said, offering a reassuring smile to Johnson.

"If you'd like some magazines . . . or pictures of your girlfriend?" Christopher turned to retrieve two cups with lids. He spun back and offered them to Steve, gesturing to the hallway which lead to a bathroom.

"No, I'm quite alright . . . thank you." Steve took the cups and made his way to the restroom that Christopher had pointed towards. After a several minutes Steve came up and handed Doctor Johnson the sample cups with a sheepish smile. Unlike ever before, this time his semen was thick, solid white, and in copious amounts.

Johnson hurried off to test the samples, leaving the now six foot two inch blond man with the smaller Peggy Carter. She sighed and wrapped the blanket around him once more. "Your blood may hold the key to Abraham's serum," she whispered. "His notes are scattered and even Howard Stark has no idea the complete formula."

Colonel Philips barked out suddenly, "and as such you are not being sent to the lines. We need you here so Stark can examine you and figure this out." He gave a glare at Steve unlike he'd ever used on the man when he was small and fragile. Whirling around, the Colonel left the room.

Doctor Johnson turned, excited suddenly and said. "Who'd have thought you'd be an Alpha, huh, Mister Rogers? I've tested the samples and, congratulations, you should have absolutely no trouble siring children. In fact, you have an overabundance of spermatozoa . . . made to breed, I'd said," he chuckled softly, a bit of grief madness around his eyes that only time would heal.

Unsure exactly how to respond to that news, Steve merely flushed and looked at the floor. He hadn't minded so much being sterile; it wasn't like he could have children with Bucky anyway, so what would he need with an 'overabundance' of sperm?

Peggy sighed, frustrated suddenly. "Well," she said softly, an edge to her voice, "if only one could have made it, he would be glad it was you, Steve," she comforted. She pressed something warm and metallic into his hand: his chain and ring. He slid them into his pocket, not wanting to draw attention to his personal business.

"Thank you . . ." Steve started but stopped when another man came forward.

Interrupting the conversation, the man in the suit held out his hand, grinning up at Steve. "Senator Brandt. Wow, impressive! It really worked!"

"Sir," Steve greeted with a polite nod of his head.

"I couldn't help but overhear that you aren't being sent overseas, son?" the senator said, smiling slightly.

"You heard right," Steve answered with a bitter tone.

"What if I told you I have a way for you to help the war effort more than dying once on the front lines, son? That you can help the entire military on both fronts?" The senator smiled wider.

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Setting: AU: Tuesday, June 22, 1943: Brooklyn, New York, United States of America

It had taken the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening for the senator to get Steve cleared to join the USO tour to help sell war bonds and keep up morale. The senator seemed quite pleased to gesture into a large cafeteria near a theater close by. "So, Steven, here you are. These are the chorus girls you'll be working with, the man who'll be Hitler for you to punch out, and the behind the scenes crew who run lights and curtains and other things. You'll get your own room and even your own dressing room . . . our Hitler prefers to get ready in a bathroom instead of a dressing room. What do you think?"

Steve looked around; he'd finally become someone who could easily help overseas and fight for the country, but his uniqueness had forced to stay stateside yet again. Steve buried his frustration. "It's . . . alright." He offered the senator a small smile.

Brandt looked around proudly. "Well, no mention of the project, yes? But you are free to brag to your family and friends that you're in the USO, son. I'm sure they'll be proud of your contribution. After all, it's the performers here who earn the funds for the weapons we send overseas." He grinned up at Steve. "I'll leave you to get to know your fellow performers over dinner."

And for perhaps the first time in his life, Steve was surrounded by women and men interested in him, what he said, his opinions. The man who played Hitler seemed quite taken with Steve and followed his every word. It was almost as if in that one half hour of torture, Steve had turned into Bucky Barnes . . . his popularity and apparently influence seemed almost overwhelming.

Alone in his assigned room, getting ready to join the rest of the cast for dinner, Steve pulled the silver chain from his pocket. He tried to clasp it around his neck but found the linked metal chain too short to fasten . . . his neck had greatly increased in girth. Wanting to cry, Steve scrubbed at his eyes. He hadn't had time to grieve Doctor Erskine, nor even properly grieve Doctor Keilmeyer, and now the cruelest blow: he no longer could wear Bucky's chain and ring. Maybe as a bracelet? Steve began to wind the chain around his thick wrist but fumbled the clasp one-handed, the end slipping from his grip and the ring flinging off onto the floor with a clatter. Gasping in horror, Steve flung himself after the ring, narrowly catching the rolling circle of gold before it could go down the floor grate.

With a sigh of relief, Steve brought the wedding ring to his lips and kissed it, let his head fall back, and closed his eyes. He slipped the ring onto his left ring finger without really thinking about it, wanting to feel it where Bucky had placed it that Christmas day. As the metal slid securely over his knuckle and seemed to lightly rest over his flesh, Steve's eyes shot open and he lifted his hand to study it in wonder.

Yes, he was taller than before, looking down on people he'd looked up to before. His body was strong and faster and he had no trouble running without an asthma attack. But the changes hadn't seemed real, seemed miraculous, until that moment when he stared at the perfect fit of his wedding ring. Slowly his sweet smile crossed his face and Steve slid the finger off with a small amount of welcome difficulty. He thought for a long moment, recalling Bucky's last day, and nodded. Steve slid the band of gold onto his right ring finger, just as his husband had done over a week before. He could and would wear his wedding ring now . . . forever.

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Continued in Chapter Twenty: Defiance