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New York, 1950. I rub the talc onto my neck and left shoulder again, trying to soothe the rows of tiny cuts I get every time I get into a scrap out on patrol. It's becoming sort of a weekly ritual now. First the neck and shoulders, then the rib cage and back, and finally the arms just above the elbows. I look at my thirty-seven year-old face and graying hair in the mirror and say: "I've got to do something about that lousy armor shirt." I glance over at my shield. Some paint scrapes and minor dents, but it's in better shape than I am, that's for sure. I can see Tuesday night will be spent in the basement, hammering out the small dents and giving it a new coat of paint. That lower strap is starting to fray around the edges again. Now young Fred - he'll probably be out with his friends after finishing his schoolwork at least. I'm doing that part right, the part about taking care of the kid and making sure he comes out of the whole mess okay. Lately, he doesn't like going out on patrols since they "mess with his social life." Before long, he'll be dating (if he isn't already... no, he'd tell me about that...I think). When that happens, I'll probably be alone in dressing up in the colors and getting into punching matches with crooks. Muscles aching, I pick up the shield. Shortly after getting this hunk of metal, I
changed the paint job a bit, adding a blue stripe around the outside edge to honor the two
men who went before me. I wonder if the next man to wear the suit will feel compelled to
make any changes on my behalf. If he does, that would be nice, but if he doesn't, it would
mean I've accomplished the main objective - to keep the country believing we never lost
him.... them.... me. That's been my job now, to keep the legend alive - to be CAPTAIN
AMERICA. The MV1 Fan Fiction Project PresentsUntold Tales of the Marvel Universe #13
by Dave Skorupa "Those Who Also Served"I put on a robe and go to my rolltop desk. It's the one piece of furniture I own that I'm proud of - the other sticks aren't worth what I paid for them. The desk was given to me by my grandfather, Samuel Jefferson Mace, a rough-and-tumble Army journalist. People called him "Uncle Sam" when I was a kid in honor of his World War I medals and his stirring patriotic speeches on the town square every Armistice Day. The irony of his name and my costume isn't lost on me. I'm named for this man - at least, I got his middle name. My name is Jefferson Mace. I open the old oak rolltop desk with my keys, and pull out the big leather journal with the metal lock on it. I've gotten sloppy about locking the book lately. Yep, forgot it again last week all right. I open the book to the last entry. Then, turning to a new page, I begin to write about the fight I got into tonight with the Diamond Kings punk gang. It's nearly the same, almost line for line, with last week's entry. Only tonight I'm writing "Diamond Kings" instead of "Rocket Daddies," and instead of "boat docks" I'm writing "warehouse district." Even though it's repetitive, I write it all down because I know this part of my life won't last forever. The gray hairs aren't the only signs that I'm getting too old for the game. I'm slowing a step here and there, and sometimes I have trouble keeping up with Fred during the middle of the fights. If not for the shield, I'm sure I would have died five or six times in the last month. Earlier this year, I modified the armor on the shirt so it would go all the way down my back. I need the extra layer of protection against these gang punks with their switchblades and the occasional stray punch. I'm not an acrobat like the first guy to wear the suit was. I'm not an inventor like the second guy. My style of fighting has more to do with boxing than judo, but I've learned some good kicking moves here and there, and I've taught myself some neat tricks with the shield, which I can use even when I'm in a pressure situation. I've been Captain America for about seven years now. That's longer than the first two guys combined. Add to that my years in the old Patriot costume... That's a long time to be risking it all. Even old military soldiers aren't facing combat every time they put the uniform on, are they? I used to think young Fred would take over when I quit the game. Now, I'm not so sure. He keeps talking about joining the service when he reaches eighteen, and I find myself thinking it's a good idea. Fred's a great kid, everything I would ever want in a son. He even calls me "Pop," a title I like even more than "Captain America." I'm getting more and more convinced that being a costumed hero cheats you out of life, and I don't want Fred to end up like me: A thirty-seven year-old bachelor who doesn't have time to look for a wife and barely has enough money at the end of the month to pay the bills. I chose this road - I'm happy with it - but I want young Fred to have a full life, and he can get that in the military. With my connections there, I can just about guarantee he will. I finish the journal entry and close the book, making sure this time to lock it. I shut the big rolltop desk and lock it, too. I put the uniform back behind the false wall of the bedroom closet, and take the shield down to the basement, where I cover it with a blanket until Tuesday. I hear a motorcycle in the driveway and see the headlight against the far wall. It's Fred, back from wherever he's been this evening. I head to the kitchen to unwrap some leftovers from last night - Fred will probably be hungry, and I'm starved myself. But then I hear footsteps running up the walkway, and I know something's wrong. Before I can get up the stairs, I see young Fred's silhouette against the basement doorway. "Pop," he says, almost out of breath, "We've got to suit up." "What's wrong, Fred?" I ask him, feeling a bit of a rush from hearing him talk about joining me on patrol again. "The fast guy - the Whizzer - found me over at the malt shop with Johnny and Pete and the guys. He handed me this note when no one was looking. I got on the bike and came home to give it to you as fast as I could." I take the note from his hand. It's in an envelope with the name "Captain America" written on it. I open the envelope and read the contents. I turn around and go back down the basement stairs to get the shield. Scraped as it was, it had more work to do. Jeff follows me down, and I see the old gleam in his eyes as I uncover the shield from the blankets. "What's it mean, Pop?" "It means we've still got some work to do, son. Too tired to join the old man on a mission this evening?" "Ah, Pop, you're not THAT old" he chides me, and runs upstairs to change into his "Bucky" costume. "I hope you're right, son," I say to myself, smiling, as I go up the stairs. My legs are already starting to complain, but I tell them to shut up as I walk to the aspirin jar before getting the costume from the closet. Seeing that gleam in Fred's eyes, I'm just as young as when I first wore the colors back in '43. - End - |