---

Yeah yeah yeah. Yeah. You heard right. Vietnam is hot. It's muggy. It smells different. It looks different. That don't mean everything is different though. People are still people and fuck yes New Years Eve is still New Years Eve.

The last day of December 1967 and goddam if we weren't still riding high off Tam Quan. This shit was what we here for. This shit was one hundred percent the shit that I was here for. Every single one of us who was here to be here had gotten some this December and after we got done getting some and we got back to what passes for civilization out here you know god damn well we got some. If you weren't getting it from someone in your unit you were getting it somewhere. All of it. Sex, booze, smokes, weed, acid, speed, uppers, downers, zips, zooms, and whamwhams.

We'd just been walking the fences since then. Baking in the sun. Sharing stories and bodily fluids with each other. Training together, talking shit together, playing cards together, listening to music together, killing time in the armpit of the world man, together. There were so many of us, it was so goddamned hot, and we were all still so pepped up on Tam Quan. That was where I met Betsy. Fucking Betsy man. Thinking about her gets me antsy again. Ooo wee.

See December had jumped off quick. Word came down in the tail end of November that Intelligence had heard the PAVN or Vietcong or LASV or some group was heading on down to Bong Son so we were ready. We were itching. PAVN, LASV, Vietcong, those are all just slight variations on enemy. Sure enough in the first few days of December they headed down Highway 1 and started moving on our boys, that's ARVN, Army of the Republic of Vietnam. The good guys, second place anyway. America is Number One and all that shit. So that's how it started, the Battle of Tam Quan.

December 6th and they send the 9th Cav in to investigate. They're pinned down quick so they call in the 8th Cav and they send me with 'em. Goddamned Captain America shit here we go. Hey bartender get me a beer yeah? Whatever you got. Yeah that's right I drink this shit. It's beer man. No. Fuck no they ain't gonna poison me, I'm a regular customer and these are friendlies. Plus I'm just too damn good. Look at me. Just look at me.

You know how we do it. 1725 Hours they tell us to go. 1800 Hours my feet hit the street and I've got a new dancing partner. Helicopter crew was worried, they smelled it so they hooked me up with my girl. Betsy. You know where Betsy came from brother? Goddamned General Electric. No, I'm not kidding. General Electric. This sweet piece of ass is a scaled down M61 Vulcan. She can put out 4,000 a minute before she overheats. That's more than your mom. Goddamn, right?

So like I was saying. 1800 Hours we're landed, by 2100 we've got the 9th Cav on their way out and we're setting up perimeter. Betsy wanted to dance. You should really see us go. We do a mean Mashed Potato.

What happened next? Yeah, sure I'll tell yeah. Let me just get a drink. Long story. Shit gets real you know? You want one? I got you, it's no problem.

---

We just about always came onto the scene the same way. Hot, fast, and spitting lead with a fury that spirit of vengeance those preachers are so fond of might find familiar. Not everyone is in it. They never are. Enough folk have second thoughts, enough don't really want to be there. Me and my boys were right where we wanted to be. I was right where I was made to be. My element.

My assistant gunner wasn't much of a killer. Isaiah Green. Maybe Greene with an E, I never did see it spelled out. He wasn't any good behind a barrel but he was goddamned fearless. Shouldn't have been here, got into a whole pile of shit for dating the wrong white woman and didn't let those sons of bitches just beat him to death. Got his pick between life behind bars and death out in the jungles of fucking Vietnam. He was good people. He painted my face up right every morning and he kept Betsy dancing all through the night. He shouldn't have been here but thank fuck he was. Kept me from getting myself into too much trouble when I was feeling myself a little too much.

And god damn if I wasn't feeling myself that day. Bare feet hanging out the chopper, and I was just looking for a target, someone that wanted shooting. Sometimes the pickings were slim and these were definitely some slim pickings. Made our job easier but a lot less fun. No one for me to shoot, no need for Isaiah to keep my belt fed, just a quick landing and we all met up with the 50th Infantry and piled into their ACAV armored carrier. Took us straight into Tam Quan no fuss no muss. They come in from LZ English and took us all the way in. By 2100 Hours we had the 9th Cav on their way out and we were setting in for the fun to come. Night Perimeter. Whole lot of nothing. Hair trigger tension. Sweat beading out and trickling down your face. Bugs eating you up. Just watching the seconds tick and waiting for the shit to kick. Shit never did kick, not all night.

Morning start up and I smelled it. Fuck if I know what it smells like but you do the right time and you can smell it. No mistaking it. Not ever. It was coming and when shit like that come you gotta be ready or you'll be dead. Gotta take inventory of who you got and what you got. Gotta be able to judge a man. I'm a goddam killer and no doubt about it. Isaiah wasn't no killer. His business never was killing, but he got down to anything else with a fear of nothing but God. Rumlow was solid too. Killer just like me except he was pay for play, wasn't in no ones service but his own. Damn good though, good man to have on your side and a horrible man to have for an enemy. Most of the other men I knew by face and reputation. Not much sense in learning names at the rate we were dropping.

Sat there with Isaiah talking shit out. Man had a keen mind. We did that more often than not. I knew one side of it, the killing. Isaiah had a sharp mind for all the other shit. The shit that meant me and mine could keep on killing without getting killed our damn selves. Vehicle positioning, traps, assignments, that was mostly his doing. Lead where you can right but know your limits. While he was going over all that I finished my preparations. Cheap shit MRE, watery mashed potatoes. Helped them out with a Red. Broke it apart and mixed the innards in with the potatoes. Isaiah kept talking and time kept on ticking. Threw another Red in there. I smelled it. The boys would be busy soon enough.

Most of them weren't killers but you didn't have to be a killer to be a soldier. You had to follow orders or at least try to. In Vietnam a lot of men died trying. Lot of men decided not to try and a lot of them we saw sure to dying. Wasn't nice. War never was. By the time we got clear to Tam Quan we'd cut most of the fat.

Lean meat. All around the perimeter. Betsy front and center behind a couple of barrels. Dancing shoes strapped tight. Vehicles positioned up front for cover and early detection. Traps laid. Bright eyed and bushy tailed. The best of America just waiting for what every one of us knew was coming, and then it did.

0725 that morning they hit the vehicles hard. Blew the Jeep apart and tore up the ACAV pretty decent. Poured a shit ton of artillery fire in too. Too far away to be accurate and we were dug in well. Only suffered one casualty. Youngster got his with a bolt from the Jeep, pulped his head. Quick death. No pain.

From there it was all action. Reinforcements got flown in. More men, more weapons. ARVN, 40th Regiment. We reformed the perimeter and then me and my boys set out to get some. Sent Rumlow out to the East, where they was coming from, to rustle some shit up. Flamethrowers, grenade launchers, our last Armored Personnel Carrier, half diversion half retribution. They pushed hard. That Rumlow was a hard son of a bitch. Pushed hard East, got around those bastards and pushed them back. Back to us.

I always liked to keep shit simple. Direct. Lethal.

Colt Commander .45, my M60, my KA-BAR, a few grenades. That was my standard issue. 8 round magazines for the pistol. Belts for the M60. She was a hungry bitch too, ate them belts up fast. Gas operated, short stroke, open bolt, more than 500 rounds per minute. That was my kit. Sometimes I took some extra goodies, but I kept it simple today. Simple is good, simple is predictable.

Rumlow did things different and today, with Betsy, it all worked out just fine. Just fine.

That day and the days that would follow, the Battle of Tam Quan. That's Vietnam in a nutshell brother.

Us and the ARVN holding the line. A bunch of American boys in the middle of Vietnam standing beside a bunch of Vietnamese boys while another bunch of Vietnamese boys come at us. Screaming bloody murder, opening fire, running out of the tree line. My brothers firing on them. Their brothers firing on us. Blood. Fire. Smoke. Oil. Clouds of CS coming out from behind them, flushing the Vietcong out. That would be Rumlow's work. The gas and the fire. Chaos on chaos. Can't hardly hear a thing over the shots. Can't hardly see a thing over the flames and the smoke. Just shapes running at you pointing sparking sticks at you, and then they're gone.

It's a nightmare. It's a dream. And there I am. Flag paint mostly washed off ages ago from the sweat and the heat but I got a new paint. My own paint, got opened up a bit at some point. Didn't even notice it. Was a bit busy. I notice it now in this one instant. This postcard memory of Tam Quan.

I'm standing there in the middle of it. Fucking rooted. Blood leaking from my head, trickling down my chest. The heat of flames drying it out, dancing on my skin. The sight of the smoke. The sounds of our guns and occasionally the sound of one of their rounds zipping past our heads. Betsy dancing in my hands, Isaiah keeping her fed. The smell of coppery blood, oil, and the lavender scent of the gas Rumlow was using to flush the enemy out. If I hadn't been so hopped up I might be running too.

Probably not though. Would have missed out on this. Couldn't do that. Not ever. Can't forget it. Not ever. Couldn't tell you what day I took that little mental snapshot. Some time between December 6th and the 9th. That's Vietnam baby. It all bleeds into one.

---

The world was brighter.

That was the first thing that Bart noticed about the past. This world some six decades removed from his own was vivid and cheerful and radiant in ways he had never known possible.

It wasn't just that the skies, devoid of perpetual smog and ash, were a beaming shade of blue; nor was it only the distinct lack of rubble and tell-tale signs of devastation everywhere he looked. It was the people that were brighter, too. Smiles and laughter abound, but even those without still held purpose and pasion, regardless of how routine, that had almost entirely been cleansed in the time Bart had come from. Society still fully existed in this period, and with it came light.

They didn't yet know what it was to truly be without hope. To despair beyond belief. To be trapped in a living nightmare where all one could do was struggle and fight to survive to the next Hellish, dark day.

It was a reality that Bart Allen intended to ensure the people of this world would never have to face.

He had first rematerialized five days ago precisely where the time machine had ferried him away from back in the future: Happy Harbor, Rhode Island. Barely a hundred feet outside of a cavern entrance that led deep into a mountain that had once, in the world that had been his home, served as a secret sanctuary of sorts during the various alien invasions that had laid havoc to the Earth.

During the Dominator's occupation, the twisting network of caves had been used by Max Mercury, Richard Grayson, and the rest of the freedom fighters to plan their four-year-long insurgency and later as a staging ground for the final assault that had driven the invaders from the planet. Seven years following, it had functioned as a hiding place for nearly two thousand civilians during the height of Apokalypse's assault on Earth, and six years further still the mountain's caverns had been the headquarters for what became the Young Justice League.

Now, it fulfilled its role as the birthplace for Bart's new life in the past.

He had wasted no time upon exiting the contraption that had shunted him through time. Immediately, Bart set about dismantling the device just as Max had instructed him to, rushing each component he stripped away to various sections of the Harbor and discarding them thousands of feet into the bay. It was of the utmost importance, he had been told, that no one could ever find any of the future technology the time machine had utilized, so Bart had taken the extra precaution of speedily pulverizing certain pieces until nothing remained but dust.

In the several days since, Bart had spent his time acclimating to his new surroundings. At least, as best as one could acclimate when they were racing across the continental United States at subsonic speeds. The time-displaced youth had been doing his best to adhere to Max's guidelines, and not revealing himself unless necessary was second only to avoiding "needlessly contaminating the timeline" as the elder speedster had put it. So, Bart was doing all of his sightseeing with powers engaged.

He had already visited several American cities that had been annihilated in his time. New York and Metropolis, Chicago and Fawcett, Keystone and Central; all were rubble the last he had seen them. Now, they were sprawling hubs of civilization that practically danced with activity. Bart had observed more people in Fawcett City in a single hour than there had been in all of the Eastern United States in the year 2030.

To go along with his tourism, Bart had also been partaking in some careful liberation of items throughout the country. Clothing, food, blankets, and the like. Nothing of genuine importance and mostly taken from those who would not be in dire need without them. Excluding, perhaps, a tempting blueberry pie that had been sitting out on a windowsill the previous day. Not a necessary meal by any means, but it was hungry work running across the United States at speeds even jetliners would be envious of, and he was, after all, a growing boy.

He would run for an hour, then explore for a handful more, before pilfering some food to restock his energy reserves, after which he'd bunk down in some isolated field far away from towns and prying eyes. Each day, he repeated the process. This was the fifth since he had arrived, and by his estimations, he was only about six hundred miles from his destination. By evening, Bart would arrive on time at the location Max had drilled into his head.

Of course, the speedster could have easily made it there, completely on the other side of the country from where he had begun, in less than an hour. Less than ten minutes, actually, if he really pushed himself. However, breaking the sound barrier near populated areas was never an ideal situation, let alone reaching hypersonic rates. In his time, achieving supersonic speeds had rarely been something he had to concern himself with. Most things that could be damaged from the pressure wave when going supersonic were already destroyed in the future, and human beings were so sparse that there was seldom a danger if Bart chose to stretch his legs a little.

Here, in 1968, that wasn't the case. Even traveling across the midwest with its vast open fields, the sound waves he would leave in his wake while running at such speeds could easily damage crops and cattle if nothing else. With an entire timeline at risk, Max had warned Bart of taking such chances with the butterfly effect.

So, Bart made sure he never reached speeds approaching Mach 1, and thus his journey was much longer. Not that he minded much, truthfully. Even running at barely 600 miles per hour, it would have taken less than half a day to reach the West Coast. Instead, he had used the excuse to move extra leisurely so that he could truly take in the wonder that was the past.

Besides, according to Max's plan, Bart had until January 6th, 1968 at 7:58 PM to be in place. At that time, and no earlier, would the first event occur the young man was instructed to change. Therefore he saw no harm in taking in the sights and appreciating a normal world until then, even if he could not actively enjoy the normality himself.

He had a little over eleven hours until then and intended to make every use of that time.

So, as he crossed the California borderline, Bart wondered if he could find another blueberry pie to borrow.

The Winter Soldier closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Dušan?” Štefan’s voice was barely audible for a normal man’s hearing. “Are you okay?” The aid placed his hand on the Soldier’s arm. The assassin barely restrained himself from ripping the man’s arm clean off. “You’re pale.” There was a pause. “And shaking.”

The Soldier’s eyes finally opened and he looked down at the crumpled pad. Indeed, his hands were shaking. The serum Hydra had given him took care of all physical ailments. He should never shake. He should report this back to his handler. At the thought his hands trembled just a little more. Being seen by Hydra had never made him shake before.

“Are you sick?” Laid asked from Dušan‘s other side. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.

“Men.” She sighed and shook her head. “Never taking care of themselves. You got this Štefan? I’m going to take him to the clinic.” The two friends exchanged looks.

“I’ll cover.” The aid agreed. “You make sure he doesn’t pass out on his fool ass.”

Ladi’s rogue mouth twisted up into a smirk. “So gracious.” She tugged on the Winter Soldier’s arm and pulled him out of the room. The immediate area was clear of people and he drew in another breath. The shadows of what he just saw still clung to him.

“I’m fine.” The man pretending to be Dušan groused.

“Sure. And I’m the Queen of Sheba.” Ladi poked him in the side. “Why don’t you sit down for a second?”

The brunette man let Ladi sit him down on one of the benches in the Castle. She sat down next to him and he turned his head to avoid her concerned look. He had no answers for her. None even for himself.

Report to Hydra.

The Winter Soldier ran his hands through his hair and inhaled shakily.

“Dizzy? Nauseous?” Ladi rubbed her hand up and down his back.

“Just-“ The man pretending to be Dušan took a deep breath. “I think I need to go home.”

The woman nodded her head. “Of course. Think you can make it on your own?”

Dušan nodded in return. Then before he could think twice he reached out and hugged her. “Thank you.” With that he was gone like a dream.

---

Dum Dum and I, we went way back. We fought together through some of the most substantial battles of that war, recorded, not recorded, and top secret. Two Irish boys, me from Brooklyn and him from Boston, going through horrors no man should have to face. Horrors that never should have been. We know each other's stories well. We are bonded in sweat and blood, triumph and tribulation. Nick Fury, Howling Commandos, French Resistance, the Red Skull. He was my brother and I was his.

In my hubris I believed I knew his story. What more could he tell me. I was there for so much. The years we had spent together, the adventures we had had. I imagined the day that changed his life was the day he met me.

"You probably figure the day I met you was the day for me, the one day."

He was right, I sure had.

"Sure Rogers, that was a big day for me but I was already on a course long before then. Already knew Fury, already Second in Command of the Howling Commandos. Already fought with the Dirty Dozen, before you ever did. Our meeting, it wasn't some grand revelation for me. It didn't change the way I viewed the world. I was already riding hard, but man when you came into the equation I turned it up to eleven. We turned it up to eleven, all through the war. Now shaddap Rogers, this is my story."

We had. We sure had. And I did, I sure did.

"For a long time I thought that that would be the day for me Rogers. I was fine with it. We pushed each other to be better men, pushed each other to the very limit. We set a hard pace and we held it steady. So yeah, that was an important day. The day we lost you Steve, that was another day that changed my life, but it still wasn't THE day. Not my day."

After I was gone he had stayed in the fight. Having faced the horrors of World War Two he took up the mantle once more when his country asked. Went to Korea. Fought a whole war there while I was frozen in the North Atlantic. Reunited the Howling Commandos with Nick Fury. Led them all through it. That took up most of the 1950s, then in '59 he formed a team. Pulled them from all over the world. Madripoor, Paris, the Emerald Coast, and right back in his backyard, in Boston. They were a team of superhumans, he said. They weren't all exactly what we might call heroes today. Dangerous men, but they answered the call and they were led by the super-est human I know.

"We fought Red Skull again and we killed him. One of my men, Victor Creed, wasn't exactly the most put together but they were difficult times, Creed cut his head off and as evil as he was that really ought to do it. Red Skull, he was trying to remake you. Was trying to make an army of Super Soldiers. He had a sample of the Serum, but we picked it up off his corpse."

He and his team protected General Hill from an assassination attempt. They rescued Black Panther from a resurgent group of Nazis who still hadn't accepted their defeat. In the beginning of this decade he and Fury had taken steps to forging a lasting peace. The real dream. They had called it The Great Wheel. It had broken, but what a beautiful dream. He had helped Fury form S.H.I.E.L.D. and continued to work with them as an operative. A year after the formation of S.H.I.E.L.D. he had been grievously wounded by a ricocheted bullet.

"I should have died Rogers. I was dying. My body wasn't strong enough to pull me through my injuries or keep me kicking after the surgery."

I had a hard time believing that. When was Dum Dum ever not strong enough.

"That was my one day Rogers. The day I wasn't strong enough. They pulled the bullet out, had the best doctors available working on me and my heart gave out. Doctors said it was a miracle I'd lived that long. That I hadn't had a massive coronary getting up one morning or walking up some stairs. They told me my odds and they weren't good. Last rites. Whole nine yards. Fury came to visit, so did a few of the Commandos. Our old pal Liberty Belle, she came by to represent the All-Star Squadron. Hell T'Chaka came by to send me off. Good to see him again, never thought I would."

I sat there, probably slack jawed. He didn't look like I remembered him. He'd lost a lot of weight and gained some wrinkles, I could believe 20 years had passed easily enough, but this was hard to believe. Maybe I just didn't want to. He had always been one of the strongest men I ever served with. A tough, brave, bear of a man. It was hard to hear I had almost missed seeing him again. I tapped my finger on the bar, couldn't think of what to say to that.

"Fury gave me something called the Infinity Formula that's supposed to help it. Slows aging, helps me stick around. I'm not going anywhere just yet but it's not going to undo the damage. I nearly killed myself trying to keep with you all those years Rogers. Nearly killed myself trying to keep that same pace after you were gone. I didn't want to sully our Legacy."

I never had much of a poker face, not with my men at least. I guess he saw what I was thinking straight away.

"Don't get me wrong now, those were the best days of my life. I'm proud of what we did. I'm damn proud. I don't regret those days with you and I never will but I found a new way. You're already a leader Rogers, you can't not be, it's not in you, but I want you to embrace it. There are new wars, we were soldiers and we were damn good at it, but it's time for us to transition."

I didn't quite protest. Dum Dum was a brother and it was clear he felt passionately about this. But I wasn't ready to hear it either.

"I didn't tell you about my day and expect you to make a decision today. There is still so much you don't know. We have twenty years of history to catch up on. We have wars, Presidents, movements, government operations, a lot has happened since we lost you. A lot of stuff that will be hard to hear. The end of the war was complicated. The years since haven't gotten any more simple. You and I will have to talk about a lot in the coming days, certainly about that ship that found you. The Ishii, that might be some serious trouble Steve."

He reached under his desk and pulled out a box then pushed it across the bar toward me.

"I wanted to hear your story and I wanted you to hear mine. It's been amazing to see you again. 1968 is going to be a hell of a year. With all that's ahead I wanted to give you something to help keep you rooted to the past. Fury helped me out, they cleared out your place after you disappeared, but we held on to some of it. Open the box."

He poured me another drink and pointed toward the box. I shook my head, drank it down and opened the box up. It was a lot to take in. His story, his state, and the box.

"I know there isn't much in it. They took most of your stuff for museums. Everyone wanted a piece. Captain America memorabilia, hell there is still a big market for it. I tried to grab the most important stuff. The most Steve Rogers-y stuff. They didn't want to let me take the baseball but I don't think they had the stones to tell me no."

"No," I said in response, "This is great Dum Dum. This is amazing."

It wouldn't look like much to much of anyone else. An old baseball. An old picture. An old sketchbook.

If you were a baseball fan you would probably recognize my ball and you might just take off with it. Made sense it would be what folks tried to keep. Signed by Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. Babe Ruth, The Great Bambino, the Sultan of Swat. Yankee. Over 700 home runs. .690 batting slugging average. 1.164 on-base plus slugging. The greatest that ever lived. I would come to find out later he no longer did. Lou Gehrig, The Iron Horse, renowned for his durability. Yankee. All-Star seven consecutive times, Triple Crown winner, American League MVP twice, a member of six World Series Championship teams. Passed away at just thirty seven from a disease they would name after him. First player to have his uniform number retired by a team. It was just an old baseball but it was my old baseball.

A picture with me, out of my Captain America uniform, and Bucky. Just two soldiers in World War Two posing beside a plane. Me being me, Bucky being him, no airs, standing next to the plane he was in when he disappeared from the world forever. It had been the last time I ever saw him. Through all the war we had come together and parted and come together again. I never thought that cycle was going to change until it did.

My sketchpad and some art supplies. It was a fresh pad, just one drawing on the first page and not even finished. A recreation. Taped to the page was an old picture of a smiling woman. My mother. The drawing wasn't even halfway finished, I had been taking my time.

"I got one more thing for you. Technically it's still in deep storage somewhere. Officially it's still in deep storage somewhere."

My shield. My old original shield, triangular. Three stars horizontal across the top and nine stripes vertical down it's length. Had barely seen this thing since T'Chaka gave me the circular one I always carried.

"It's almost New Years Steve, I want you to enjoy it. I've got one more thing I want to say to you and then I want you to mix in. We've all seen a lot, we've all got stories."

It was a lot to take in, but I was going to try.

"You're more than just a fighter Rogers. I've led men who wanted nothing but a battle, I've known men who were nothing more than fighters, that isn't you. You're a defender, you're a leader. The world didn't love you just because you killed Nazis. Killing something repugnant, even the Nazis, that alone isn't enough to generate love, not real love. They loved you because you defended their brothers, their husbands and their sons. You're a defender, a beacon, a leader, like it or not. You're a symbol of America Steven, it's up to you what that symbol means."

We shared a drink after that. It was kind of hard to pick up a conversation after something like that and he really did want me to talk with the others. Dum Dum had given me a lot to think about and he gave me a little more to get me moving. He gave me a smile and a nod and a light push on the shoulder to spin my stool around, urging me to get out there and talk to the others. I guess that was it, that was my christening. World War Two was over and had been for decades. New wars had been fought, newer wars were being fought. Dugan was right, I was a Leftover now, we all were. Couldn't ask for better company.

S M A L L V I L L E
Kansas, United States of America
April 14, 1964

---

Two voices on the line, two different sides of the country.

"He just left with the box, met a few of my guys and he seems ok, he's trying [*buzzing noise*]. He's definitely trying."
"What does he know?"
"Doesn't seem like he knows much, been in the ice and all, but one thing, we have to look in to one thing. And I mean right now. We talked a little, about coming back. The ship that picked him up out of the drink, it was the Ishii. They had him [*buzzing noise*]."
"Fuck."
"Yeah."
"Did he know the significance?"
"No, didn't seem like he did. But-"
"Yeah. I know."
"He's not ready for this shit [*buzzing noise*]. It's a different world, it's so goddamned different from what we knew and he-"
"Don't tell him shit."
"I don't like it. I don't like keeping secrets from him. He deserves better than that."
"Deserve doesn't have shit to do with it."
"He's going to start asking questions. [*buzzing noise*] isn't the type to just go along, you know that, and I can't lie to him. Not to him."
"We will deal with that when we come to it."
"Listen, I can't lie to him. I can decide not to tell him things, to protect him I can do that, but I can't lie to him."

The line went silent for a moment.

"[*buzzing noise*] is an idealist in a less than ideal world. We don't deal with the world as we would like it to be, we deal with what we have. What we have right now is a big shit sandwich and we're all going to have to take a bite. You tell him there is work to be done. A soldier's work. There's a place here for him still, but if he starts digging too fast."
"What? What if he does?"
"We will deal with that when we come to it, if we come to it. For now we manage him. Surface answers. Let him figure things out organically, slowly. We control the pace."

---

I walked back to my apartment a little over an hour into the year. It had been good for me. We shared some stories, shared a beer. I wore my Captain America Smile. It's always strange to me to hear how similar but how different our experiences were. Stranger still to hear how people perceived me, mostly still do. Those feelings, the way people imagine Captain America to be, have only grown stronger in these last decades.

It's like I died 20 years ago, yet some version of me became immortal.

There was Captain America and there was Steven Rogers. Captain America was a propaganda poster, a figment, a smiling face, and Steven Rogers was a young man in the 1940s who dreamed of being a cartoonist and ended up a soldier. Both of them were dead but I was still around. Twenty Five years old in 1968. Built like a brick shit house, pardon my French, walking through the streets of San Francisco on New Years Eve feeling sorry for myself and feeling guilty for feeling sorry for myself when so many of my brothers were dead.

I ran through a list of names as I walked. Not knowing where to go or what to do. That list grows so long. I knew it was longer than I realized. Common sense told me it had grown considerably longer while I was a popsicle. I felt tears running down my cheeks, but slowly and sparsely, stubborn. I fought them back but it was a losing fight. I was a mess. Survivor's guilt, maybe, but naming it didn't change anything. Dum Dum helped, I knew I wasn't alone. I knew I had a purpose, or at least there was a purpose Dum Dum envisioned for me, but I felt this great pressure pushing down on me.

Dum Dum he wanted me out there, wanted me building a new life, leading the future. All I wanted was to sleep. I knew it then but would never admit it, I wanted to return to the ice. To where Bucky was smiling that goofy smile, Peggy was shooting me those eyes of hers, Dum Dum was right there at my side backing my every play. All my other brothers, we were young and we were doing the right thing. The life of Steve Rogers instead of whoever the fuck I was now.

I kept walking, I made it back home, and I climbed in to bed. I'd won the war tonight. I was still kicking. Tomorrow would be another battle. At least I had my shield back.

S M A L L V I L L E
Kansas, United States of America
September 7, 1966