Cshield13:
It was nice just sitting down after a mission well done. Totally, completely, perfectly executed. Absolutely no problems whatsoever.
I ignored the half-collapsed, very much still-on-fire outpost, the panicking Sokovian soldiers in green uniforms running around like headless chickens, shouting over each other while trying to salvage what was left of their base.
Totally perfect success.
The groaning, peacock-looking man beside me, Adler, the so-called master forger, was sprawled out, unconscious but breathing. See? Completely fine.
"Jack!"
Anna's voice cut through the noise. She sprinted over, hair singed at the tips and soot smudging her cheek, but her eyes were sharp and furious.
"Hey, glad to see you're okay," I managed, aiming for casual.
"Shut up," she snapped, eyes dropping to my back. "You're burned."
"Oh, that? Just a light tan."
She didn't dignify that with a response. Instead, she yanked the Sun Princess Ring off her own hand and shoved it onto my finger. Warmth pulsed through me instantly, the pain in my back flowed away. I sighed in relief, though the glare she gave me killed any chance of joking my way out of it.
"No trouble, right?" she said, tone dripping with sarcasm.
I said nothing. Mostly because there wasn't an answer that wouldn't make me look worse.
So I did what any self-respecting man in my position would do: I chuckled weakly and tried to look anywhere but her eyes.
Unfortunately, it was a very powerful glare. After a few seconds, I caved.
"Sorry…"
"Hmph." She crossed her arms, muttering, "Like a child…"
I was halfway to defending myself when something poked my shoulder blade.
"Gyah!"
Zemo stood behind me, unimpressed as ever. "Mostly first-degree burns," he said, poking me again with clinical detachment. "A few second-degree patches, but you'll live." His gaze flicked to the ring. "Will your 'magic' be enough to get you back on your feet?"
"It'll be fine," I said with a wince. "Just need a minute to sit."
He grunted in acknowledgment.
I glanced around at the chaos, the shouting soldiers, the smoking craters, the faint wail of alarms still echoing somewhere underground. "So… is this all, uh…" I gestured vaguely toward the devastation. "Gonna be alright?"
"Of course not," Zemo said flatly, sitting beside me and brushing ash off his coat. "An armed force invaded a restricted military base, killed several soldiers, and blew up half of it. If that's not a disaster, I don't know what is."
"Fair."
He tilted his head slightly. "Still, it could've been worse. If we weren't here, the entire garrison would've been wiped out without us ever realizing who attacked them."
"Your government's gonna flip out over this, huh?"
Zemo gave a short, humorless laugh. "They'll pretend to. There'll be speeches about vengeance, unity, and justice. Meanwhile, the politicians will parade around blaming each other for their incompetence." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Some opportunists will even try to spin this as a terrorist attack for their own agendas. With how fragile things are here, it could spark civil unrest."
"Yikes." I scratched my head, wincing as my shoulder flared in protest. "Politics really are a pain. Guess that's universal."
He glanced at me. "That surprises you?"
"Not really. Just sucks."
The fires crackled louder, filling the silence between us.
"Is there something I can do to help?" I asked finally.
He raised an eyebrow. "Like you 'helped' at the base?"
"Hey, that wasn't my fault," I protested, though weakly.
"Of course." His tone was dry as ever. He stood, dusting off his coat. "Still, I appreciate the sentiment. Unfortunately, this goes beyond brute force. I have my own levers in the political sphere. I'll do what I can to keep a lid on this." His expression darkened. "But if Hydra's infiltration runs as deep as you claim, that may be a luxury."
"SHIELD isn't completely compromised," I said, pausing before adding, "I think."
"Wonderful vote of confidence, dude," Anna muttered, crossing her arms.
I shot her a look. She just stared back, unimpressed.
Ah jeez. She's really pissed.
"Anyway," I said, clearing my throat, "you might want to reach out to a few SHIELD execs. Specifically Phil Coulson, Nick Fury, or Maria Hill. They're probably the only ones who'd actually listen and, you know, help."
Zemo tilted his head. "I have heard of Nick Fury. Is he trustworthy?"
"Well…" I hesitated. "As much as a super-spy can be."
He snorted softly.
"Depends on your definition of trust," I added. "Fury's the kind of guy who'll stab you in the back if it saves the world, but he does care about saving it. If you reach out with proof, I think he'd move to help."
Zemo hummed, something between approval and deep existential disappointment. Hard to tell. Either way, I let it drop. Not my doghouse to fix.
"I'll keep things here as quiet as possible," he said after a moment, "but no promises. Too much has happened. Even with my orders, it'll be difficult to contain." He glanced toward Adler, still unconscious. "Once he wakes, I'll have him work overtime on your documents. Then you'll be on your way."
"My, it sounds like you're trying to get rid of us," I said lightly.
"Yes," Zemo replied without hesitation. "The farther you are from this disaster, the fewer questions I'll have to answer later."
"Wow, heartfelt," I muttered. "But seriously, if you ever need a favor, call it in. We owe you for this mess."
He gave a short nod of acknowledgment.
Before I could say more, another soldier jogged over, clutching a radio tight in his hand. He spoke quickly, voice low and tense. I couldn't catch the words, but Zemo's expression said enough, jaw tightening, nostrils flaring, anger flickering just beneath that calm facade.
He murmured something back. The soldier saluted and hurried off.
"Trouble?" I asked.
Zemo's face was thunderous. "It seems," he said slowly, "I may need to take you up on that favor after all. This was not the only place attacked."
Steve had felt a lot of things after getting out of the ice. Regret, mostly. The kind that settled deep in his chest and refused to leave. Every morning it came back, the weight of everything he'd fought for, everyone he'd known, all of it swallowed by time.
But Mama hadn't raised a quitter. So he soldiered on.
He tried to readjust to this strange new world that looked the same but worked so differently. The discomfort was constant, but there were moments of quiet wonder, too. Watching children laugh without fear, seeing technology do things he could never have imagined. It wasn't his world anymore, but it wasn't a bad one either.
Still, for all the regret and fascination, what gnawed at him most wasn't pain. It was restlessness, the kind that crept in during quiet hours and wouldn't let go. His war was over. His time had passed. So what now?
Live the American dream? Settle down, buy a house, maybe a dog? He'd thought about it. God knew he'd earned it. But the idea never stuck. That hollow ache always came back.
There were still battles to be fought, of course. The world hadn't run out of evil; it had just evolved. But was it his place anymore? Was Captain America still needed in a world where enemies hid behind politics and headlines?
Back then, it had been simple. Nazis needed punching. That was it. No second-guessing. No debates.
Now… everything was gray. And he hated gray.
Maybe that was why, despite every instinct telling him not to trust spies, he didn't hesitate when Fury came calling.
The world had changed a lot in seventy years. But one thing hadn't.
A shootout was still a shootout.
A second explosion ripped through the street ahead, shaking the ground beneath his boots. Rubble scattered as faceless gunmen opened fire from the rooftops, bullets sparking off twisted metal.
Steve ducked behind a concrete barrier, shield raised. The sharp tang of chemical fire filled the air. Somewhere in the smoke, automatic fire echoed, mixed with the faint screams of security guards trying to hold the line.
It was almost nostalgic.
He took a steady breath. The rhythm of a fight was still the same even after all these years.
He looked down at the shield in his hand. The same one he'd carried through another lifetime.
Then he moved.
The shield left his hand in a clean, perfect arc. It sliced through the air with a low thump before smashing into a gunman's chest. The man went down hard, rifle clattering across the pavement.
Steve was already sprinting before the body hit the ground. He vaulted over a burned-out car, boots crunching on glass as he closed the gap to the next shooter. The man fired wildly, three rounds cracking past his ear before Steve slammed into him shoulder-first, driving him into the wall.
He caught the shield on the rebound and turned just in time to see another soldier duck behind a barricade.
Too slow.
The shield struck him in the ribs with a dull thud, bounced off the wall, and snapped back into Steve's grip. The man folded over, gasping.
Two more emerged from behind a truck, firing short, controlled bursts. Steve dove low, rolling across the asphalt as bullets sparked inches from his head. He came up behind the vehicle, shield raised, and pulled a smoke grenade from his belt.
He rolled it forward. The world vanished into gray.
Footsteps. Shouts. Panic. A brief scuffle, then silence.
When the smoke cleared, the street was quiet again. Five men down, weapons scattered, no fatalities.
Steve stood in the center of it all, breathing steady. The entire fight hadn't lasted more than a minute.
Moments later, two SHIELD agents in black tactical gear rounded the corner, rifles lowered but wary. One of them hesitated, eyes widening as they recognized him.
"Captain Rogers," the man said, almost reverently. "We'll take it from here."
Steve gave a short nod and handed over a rifle. The agents moved quickly, cuffing the unconscious gunmen and securing the scene.
He glanced once more at the skyline, still faintly smoking from the blast, and let out a slow sigh. His fingers brushed the edge of his shield.
It wasn't the 1940s anymore. But the fight, the fight hadn't changed at all.
He shook his head. Not the time to be introspective. He took off running, boots pounding against broken pavement as he headed back to where his supposed partner was meant to be.
A blast of wind hit him like a freight train. The air left his lungs in a harsh grunt, and he went tumbling across the concrete, rolling until his boots scraped against the ground hard enough to stop him. He came up on one knee, shield raised, eyes scanning the smoke and wreckage.
There—hovering above the ruins.
A man. Floating. Dressed in black tactical gear that fluttered in the air currents he was generating.
Okay, that was new.
The man lifted a hand, and the wind roared again. Steve braced himself, shield angled, but the sheer force of the gale shoved him several feet back, boots grinding grooves into the asphalt.
"Alright," he muttered, "guess we're doing this the hard way."
He thought about throwing his shield. Instinct itched for it. But the air around the man shimmered oddly, the wind twisting in unnatural patterns. With that much wind, the throw would probably bounce right off.
So, fists it was.
He lunged forward, pushing through the gusts, legs pumping as he closed the gap in a blur. The man reacted instantly, twisting the air, the pressure around Steve shifting sharply—
Then a shadow fell across them both.
Something massive whistled through the air and slammed into the ground between them with a deafening crash. Dust and chunks of debris erupted skyward, throwing both men off balance.
Steve blinked through the haze. The "floating guy" had narrowly escaped, his wind powers just barely keeping him from being crushed beneath the boulder now embedded in the street.
"Jesus…" Steve muttered, squinting at the new arrival. "Now what?"
The answer came in the form of a sharp crackle, like thunder snapping too close to his ear.
Static rolled through the air, followed by a faint electric hum. Two figures stepped through the smoke—one tall, one shorter. Both wore clown masks.
He froze.
They froze.
Even the wind user hesitated, hovering uncertainly in midair. For a surreal moment, all three parties just stared at one another: soldiers and clowns. Nobody seemed entirely sure how this was supposed to go.
Then the taller clown raised his hand
A boulder the size of a car formed out of thin air and launched forward like a fastball. The wind user jerked aside at the last second, the projectile ripping through the spot where he'd been and carving a deep trench into the street.
Steve lowered his shield slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"God," he muttered, "and I thought the modern world was weird enough."
The wind howled again, scattering dust and smoke through the ruined street. Steve tightened his grip on the shield and moved.