"Are you ready Tibbs?"

Mor glared at her colleague as she attempted to straighten out her uniform for the umpteenth time. Why she thought that he'd be the best prep-help was really beyond her. "Do I look ready?" She stood at attention, shoulders square, feet at a forty-five degree angle, trying to project an air of confidence and competence.

"You look anxious," he said, leaning on the wall of the changing room.

She huffed and looked back at the mirror, trying to control her expression. "I'm not anxious! I'm… amped up on adrenaline."

He snorted. "So you're nervous?"

"No!" she denied reflexively, as she pat down loose strands of hair. "I'm… suitably excited."

"If you say so."

"I do say so, dammit." She tugged down on the left side of her uniform to even out her nametape only to have her ribbons skew on the right side. "Oh for fuck's sake, Gallows, help me with this stupid thing." He removed the ribbon rack before carefully repinning it in line with the nametape.

Taking a step back, Gallows looked her over and nodded. "As long as you don't pull around on the jacket, it should be fine. Are you sure you're ready?"

Taking a deep breath, Mor stepped out of the dressing room. "As ready as I'll ever be to interview with the Chief of the Army."

"That's fair," Gallows nodded, falling into step beside her. "Still no word on what your actual job will be?"

"Nope, but if I figure if I've got to go through the Army's top dog to get it, it's gotta be one hell of a position."

"Eh, you'd think that, but we both had to get interviewed for this job and it's not much different than any other staff position."

"What are you saying?! Don't jinx it!"

"Sorry, you're right, I'm sure that it's exactly what every officer dreams of, with extra pay and days off." He snickered when Mor made a distressed sound and knocked on the nearest wooden plaque. "Alright, let's say that it is neither terrible or the best job ever—what if they send you somewhere you don't want?"

"I don't care where they send me," Mor said resolutely, "as long as the job's good."

"Even That Place?" Gallows waggled his eyebrows.

Mor rolled her eyes. "You don't need to speak in euphemisms."

"Really? Because you nearly bit my head off last week for asking if you were going to watch the Army-Air Force game."

"Well it was a stupid question!" The pair stopped simultaneously, staring at the imposing door in front of them. Objectively, it was no different than any other office door in this building, but what lie beyond it made all the difference. "Why would I subject myself to so much torture?"

"Are we talking about the game or this interview?"

"Yes." She stared at the door. Time ticked by as a nearly visceral sensation. This was it.

"Hey, Tibbs."

"Yeah?"

A hand on her shoulder turned her to face Gallows. "You've got this. Remember, you've already gone through hell and come out the other side. This will be nothing in comparison. Even the worst day out here is better than—"

"—the greatest day at West Point." Mor managed to twitch her face into something resembling a grateful smile, too nauseous to really commit to it. "Thanks, Gallows. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, I'll put it on your tab." He gave her a gentle shove. "Now, go forth and conquer."

Mor threw her shoulders back and put a hand on the doorknob. She mentally aligned herself, locking all of the doubts and fears in a dark corner of her mind and lovingly putting the parts of herself not fit for military bearing on a shelf in that same corner. No hesitation now. No indecision. It was time to go in for the kill.

/

There's a board of three officers sitting at a desk. The central officer is immediately recognizable as none other than General Marks, Army Chief of Staff, but she can't identify the other two by sight alone. Mor strode to the center of the room and rendered a salute. "First Lieutenant Morgan Thibodeaux reporting as ordered," and holds the salute for a breath longer after General Marks acknowledges it.

General Marks smiles at her, probably meant to be encouraging or friendly. "Please, LT, have a seat."

Obeying the request like the command it was, Mor sat in the only chair facing the council.

"What do you go by?" He asks as he leafs through her file. "Morgan?"

"Yes, sir." As formal and stuffy as her first name was, she vastly preferred superior officers addressing her by 'Morgan' rather than being overly familiar. 'Mor' was a nickname for friends and family only, thanks.

"Alright, Morgan," General Marks smiles again and it's setting her teeth on edge. "Do you know why you're here today?"

"I've passed the initial screenings for a unique and rare opportunity," she recites. "This is the interview is the final screening for the candidates."

The female Colonel— her nameplate read "Polonsky"—snorted. "So you have no idea what this opportunity entails."

"…No, ma'am."

"That's alright," General Marks said consolingly—and when has it ever been a good sign to get consoled in your own interview? "I'd be much more concerned if you had known. Infosec, you know how it is."

"Yes, sir."

The black Colonel, Mbanwe, speaks next. "What do you hope this opportunity is?"

"Well, sir, I'm hoping this'll be the next step in my career. You can see in my application that I've previously held key leader positions that satisfy the requirement for promotion—"

"That's right, you've made the list haven't you?" Colonel Polonsky interrupted. "Congrats on making it to promotable."

"Thank you, ma'am," she paused, not sure if she was expected to continue. "My previous leadership positions have been—"

"When do you pin Captain?" Colonel Polonsky cut her off again. Mor focused her attention on her, more curious than confused or upset at being continuously interrupted. It seemed strange that General Marks would allow one of his board members to talk over his candidates like this. Colonel Polonsky obviously didn't fear any repercussions for her actions, so either General Marks didn't have a backbone… or this was part of the interview.

"In May, ma'am."

"Right," Colonel Polonsky drawls. "All the West Pointers get promoted in the spring." Mor waited for her to continue, allowing the silence to stretch on for a few moments.

Colonel Mbanwe seemed to tire of the game first. "Referencing my question again, what do you hope this opportunity is?"

"Sir, as you can see in my file, I've held key leader positions in the past, but the closest I've had to leading Soldiers was as an Executive Officer. I'm keen on finding a position or role that puts me at the head of a unit or team; I don't care how big or small. While I may not know the details of what this opportunity is, I know that I'm ready to tackle any challenge or project with tenacity and grit."

"That 'tenacity and grit' didn't seem to apply to your master's courses," Colonel Polonsky observed.

Morgan frowned. That wasn't in her application. She didn't think it had been worth explaining that… "I had been, yes ma'am, but I have postponed my studies until I can better dedicate my time to them."

"So do you plan on postponing this job until you have more time to dedicate to it?"

"My job comes first, ma'am," Mor explained as calmly as she could, ignoring how her legs shook in her boots. She was fine. A little excitement for a little confrontation is all it was. "It's the reason I don't have time for schooling."

Colonel Mbanwe took pity on her once more. "What was your major?"

"Psychology, sir."

For maybe the second time that interview, General Marks addressed her directly. "That's an interesting choice, since your bachelor's was in a geography field."

They were examining her undergrad choices? "People live in places, sir," she wanted to smile and show how at-ease she was, but decided it wasn't worth the risk of grimacing. It would be best to inject the humor into her tone, instead. "They're not so unrelated."

"You've also logged quite a few hours in VMIS?" He asked curiously.

This interview was becoming stranger by the minute. How had a passing reference to her volunteer activities turned into a reason to check the Army's volunteer website for the actual hours logged? How could that possibly be relevant? "Yes, sir. I volunteer about eight hours over the course of a week with a crisis hotline." Which they would clearly know if they had taken the time to look at her hours.

"Would this happen to be related to your choice of major?"

"It looks good on post-graduate resumes, sir, and…" she hesitated. "And the skills are useful."

Colonel Mbanwe leaned forward in interest. "What skills are those, Lieutenant Thibodeaux?"

"It mostly involves talking people down from hot to cold, sir. Which might sound jargon-y, but it's basically helping people calm down from very emotional moments so they can make it through another day," Colonel Mbanwe nods his understanding. "I'm not always able to do it," Mor admits. "Sometimes I have to pass a difficult case to another counselor, but I do my best."

"That is good to hear," Colonel Mbanwe said encouragingly. "It is admirable to take time out of our lives to help others."

"Work, volunteer, school, it seems like you do it all, Thibodeaux," Colonel Polonsky leaned back in her chair. "Assuming you get eight hours of sleep like the rest of us mortals, I'd have to wonder if you have any time for friends and family."

"All my family live in Louisiana, ma'am. The most I get to hear from them is when we call every week and when I go home for holidays," she paused, riding out the wave of homesickness. "I don't have a significant other or pets, so it's not as much of a time investment as it sounds."

General Marks hummed. "If you don't have family in the area, what do you do in your spare time?"

"Uh, well, I read, sir. Play video games. Movies, I guess. Work and volunteering takes up most of my time, though."

"Would you consider yourself well-versed in pop culture?" General Marks asked in that conspicuously casual manner that always masks a particular interest.

"I suppose?" Mor responds suspiciously. "I'm a good person to have on your team at trivia night, if that's what you mean."

"How about internet culture?"

Mor blinked rapidly, hoping to gods unseen that she wasn't blushing. It's not like they abused government powers to scrape her internet history. Right? "Uh, yes, sir, I think I would consider myself proficient," and thank heavens she managed to keep her voice at a normal pitch.

General Marks nodded again, apparently not sensing anything strange about her answer. Or his question, for that matter. Looking thoughtful, he steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "This might be a little bit of an out-there question," he begins, "so don't be afraid to take a minute to think over your answer. Let's say you met a time traveler and you'd be responsible for the traveler's entire education leading up to today and integrating them into modern society. What would you do?"

She blanks. This had to be one of those 'off-the-wall-question-that-totally-shows-we're-a-cool-corporation-that's-hip-please-buy-into-our-culture-cult' type of things. There was simply no other explanation. Unless they wanted her to lampshade the question, so to speak? "Sir, I've got to say that I'm not sure what this line of questioning has to do with—"

"Humor us," Colonel Polonsky spoke over her.

Guess they want a real answer. Well, if they want her to take it seriously…

"What year is the time traveler from, sir? Are they from the future?"

"No," he says, shifting in his chair. "Let's say the time traveler is a, oh, I don't know, an American Soldier from Brooklyn, 1943."

Very oddly specific. "Well, sir, if the priority is integrating the Soldier into modern society, then I suppose I would have to cover the information that he would need on a day-to-day basis so it wouldn't raise red flags for others. Manners of speech, how to dress, what to expect, what not to say. Once we get generic conversation down, then we'd have to work on the basics of modern technology: cell phones, computers, the internet is going to be the biggest one probably. That way, the Soldier can begin developing independence instead of relying on a single person."

"So you would not start with a summary of events since 1943?" Colonel Mbanwe asked in polite interest.

"If the Soldier asks about it I would answer, sir, but that would be something we'd work on over time, since it's ultimately something that the Soldier would be able to look into themselves. I'm not saying I wouldn't cover it, just that it takes a lower priority than social and technological skills."

"I see."

The board of officers all looked at each other, seeming to communicate with nothing more than eye twitches and eye rolls. Her nerves were starting to vibrate in that mental box she locked them in. Finally, they seemed to reach an agreement. General Marks spoke.

"Okay, Morgan. Here's where we lift the curtain. This is not the final screening for the job." A rush of terror— did she mess up that badly? Did she completely miss a step in the application process? Practical tests? "The final screening already happened." Oh. "This is your in-brief to your new position as an aide." Oh.

She… she got the job? She got the job! Wait—"Sir, as an aide?" Her fleeting excitement quickly crashed into sinking disappointment. An aide was not a leadership position. Not by any stretch of the imagination. That's not what she signed up for.

"Yes— don't worry you won't be mine," General Marks chuckled at his own joke. "This won't be a traditional aide role. You will be responsible for a single individual, but you will be equivalent in rank. Well, you will be in May, anyway." What in the hell kind of Captain requires an aide? "Nominally, he will be your superior, but in reality you will be his first-line. You will have no supplementary duties. Additionally, you'll be required to PCS to another post by the end of the month. You may or may not be required to PCS in the near future. You report directly to COL Polonsky, who will forward all your reports to me. Knowing these facts, are you willing to take the job?"

She hesitated, confusion warring with… well, more confusion if she was being honest. PCSing wouldn't affect her life too drastically. She never finished unpacking from her last move—that's not what's giving her hang-ups. A one-to-one working relationship didn't sound too difficult, but it was still baffling that such a job required reporting directly to the Chief of the Army's staff. No matter what angle she looked at this from, it just wasn't the leadership position she was angling for.

"If it makes any difference," Colonel Mbanwe interjected, "I will say that this position will afford you the opportunity to rub elbows with a quite a few influential individuals, military and civilian. As for more concrete benefits… An annual evaluation from General Marks would be impressive no matter the job title."

It made sense. If she delayed her pursuit of a leadership position long enough to complete this job, it may pay off in dividends in the future. No supplementary duties meant that she could even resume her master's studies, which would give her a competitive edge for future positions that few would be to compete with, let alone out-do. She could feel the tentative consideration crystallizing into determination.

"When do I start, sir?"

"Should I take that as your acceptance?" General Marks asked, almost… teasing? It was setting off alarms, whatever it was.

"Yes, sir."

"In that case, it's time to give you the full brief. You will be Captain America's aide."

Mor blinked rapidly. "Captain America? Are we reviving the mantle?"

"In a way," General Marks confirmed. "I'm sure you know the story of the original Captain America."

Incredulous, she laughed to help ease the tension. "What American doesn't, sir?"

"Very true. Did you hear about the most recent expedition to recover his remains?"

"No, sir. I assume that I would have heard something if it had been successful."

"Yes. The mission to recover his remains was unsuccessful… because we ended up recovering him alive."

"I'm sorry?" She didn't think she had lost that much of her hearing.

"We have no idea how he survived, either. All we know is that we have a resurrected American icon on our hands with no knowledge of the past seventy years and the Army is the only thing he has to rely on. That's where you come in. You'll be responsible for his education and integration into modern society. You will have all the Army's resources available to you to achieve this mission."

"I'm going to be training Captain America?" Mor asked faintly.

"That's a good summary, yes."

"We've prepared a packet for you regarding his condition and medical requirements for your review," Colonel Polonsky said, holding out a thick manila folder of information. "Currently, he's subject to monthly physical check-ups and biweekly appointments with his therapist. Given his precarious situation, we're not announcing his existence to the world just yet—if we ever do. There are very few people who are aware of his exact identity. Outside of General Marks' staff, only his therapists and two others know about him—and one of those two are the president." Oh shit what did she get herself into? "His only job right now is to get up to speed on what it takes to be a modern officer which makes it your job to get him there. Do you have any questions?"

"No, ma'am," she managed to say. "Just… a little overwhelmed, I think."

"Well, that's alright," General Marks grinned, giving Mor the distinct impression that making people feel overwhelmed was one of his hobbies. "COL Polonsky will give you her work cell so you can contact her with any questions that might occur to you. We're aiming to get Captain America settled in to his new home by the first of November and we want you to be there to greet him. In the interest of not leaving him alone without compromising either his or your independence, we've arranged to have a duplex set aside. All you have to do is ship your things. In fact," he pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to her. She took it with numb fingers. "I already have your PCS leave approved. As soon as you leave, you can get packed and heading out!"

"I—thank you, sir. Do I, uh, need to call anyone?"

"No, my buddy Bobby is taking care of everything on the receiving end. We already have a duplex set aside for you and Captain America. It was wonderful meeting you, Morgan, and I look forward to receiving your reports in the future."

"Absolutely, sir. I look forward to providing them," she saluted her departure, feeling herself go through the motions, but not convinced she was the one causing them. It felt like she was underwater— everything was hazy, muted, fantastic, and unreal. Could this really be happening? Is she really going to work with the Captain America? It's just too good to be true, and she didn't even have to knock on wood to protect that statement! She's even going to move! Soon! To—to… where was she going?

She was halfway to the door before she realized that would be good information to have while packing. "Sir? Where am I PCSing to?"

General Marks looked up from collecting paperwork and grinned in a distinctly unsettling manner. "A post I think you'll be very familiar with. You'll be returning to your alma mater, West Point."

Mother fucker.