Abraham is a genius.
I knew this even when we studied together. I morized, he understood. I solved problems, he derived formulas. I researched, he invented.
He who is born to crawl, flies sideways. Well, Erskine was born with wings. I was born with claws.
Higher education, no matter how prestigious it is, has never added intelligence to anyone. It can facet a cobblestone, give it sharpness and shine, but it won't make it a diamond. Just like four degrees won't.
Yes, I learned to understand the studied fields, and I dare hope—understand them quite well. But to Create, specifically Create with a capital letter, I cannot. Fortunately or unfortunately. However, I am a good assistant. Convenient and quick-witted.
Working with Abraham was like flying with an Ace. Or playing in an orchestra of a brilliant conductor. Pleasant, Zen! It's just a pity that this is his last work. Cap must remain the only one of his kind. The formula must be lost. And if Kruger misses, I will have to do it myself.
Abraham is an idealist. He believes that the world will beco better with his discovery. But I don't believe it. Maybe I'm a fool?
Who knows? But: "Do what you must, and co what may." Sothing like that. That's what I think.
And I also t Howard Stark. Another genius. It's mind-boggling—he created a flying car in nineteen thirty-nine!!!
Not without flaws, of course. But the fact remains—it flies! It flies!!! Zen.
When I saw it in real life, and not on a TV screen, my jaw dropped. Actually, literally. I stood with my mouth open and round eyes, staring at this miracle. For about five minutes, until the engines started sparking and Howard cut the power.
Stark also worked on the project.
A universal tool is always worse in performance than a specialized one. These two were brilliant, but they practically didn't understand each other. Erskine is a biochemist, dic, and physiologist. Stark is a techie. And I am both. Not a genius, not even talented, but I catch on quickly. And most importantly, I understand them both. And I am able to translate one into the language of the other. Whether in formulas or in hardware.
I liked working with them.
* * *
Steve Rogers. A funny guy. Stubborn.
I asked Abraham to introduce to him. Agent Carter even photographed our first eting: it must have been a very funny sight. I am one ter ninety-five tall and weigh one hundred twenty-five kilograms. He is one hundred fifty-five and thirty-eight, respectively. Shaking hands with each other. I later begged Margaret for a copy of this epic photo.
I liked the kid. Funny. Kind.
I took it upon myself to teach him a little hand-to-hand combat. In my free ti. Reducing Steve's in the process. Stubborn kid. Not only is he going through basic training at the military base, but instead of resting, he also cos to train with ! Because of this, he only had three or four hours of sleep left a day. And considering his state of health... Stubborn.
And so that very day ca. Richards's screams, Stark's sparks, the almost completely de-energized city. A killer disguised as a US State Departnt employee...
An explosion. Little fountains of blood flying out of Abraham's chest from the impact of Kruger's bullets...
Abraham was still falling, and I had already snatched a Colt from behind my trouser belt. A one-handed sports grip and half a magazine into the villain's body. The coveted flask falls to the floor and shatters.
Rogers is on his knees in front of the dying Abraham. Carter is catching Kruger's accomplices, and I am sitting on a chair feeling like shit. My friend died right before my eyes, and I did nothing to save him. I wanted to get drunk, but the healing factor won't allow it. And I'll still have to sohow look into the eyes of his wife and daughter. Damn it. Was I right? And what to do next?
Run away and hide again?
* * *
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