Steve had a dream. In it, he saw himself piloting Hydra's giant bomber into the Arctic, crashing into an iceberg.
The difference was that this time, no one saved him. He died for his country just like that. His soul drifted back to New York, where he watched people attend his funeral. They buried a set of clothes in an empty coffin because no trace of his body had remained.
His old comrades were there, along with Godfather, Bucky, and Peggy. They all wept bitterly.
He wanted to tell them that he had sacrificed himself for humanity's freedom, that they should be proud of him rather than mourn him.
But as a soul, he could not speak. He could only stand by and watch several figures in black mourning clothes solemnly gathered in the lush green military cemetery.
After a long while, when everyone had gradually left the cemetery, Slade lit a cigarette in the dream and looked at Steve's tombstone.
"At least you didn't die on the way to buy hamburgers."
That sentence seemed to link the dream and reality together. Steve's head throbbed, and he remembered. He remembered what had truly happened in reality.
"No!!!"
He suddenly opened his eyes and woke from the dream, struggling to rise from the church pew. But a pair of powerful hands pressed him back down. Those hands were as solid as rock; even a Superhero could not resist them.
Steve realized his head had been resting on someone's thigh. In his field of vision was not only the church's ornate ceiling, but also a familiar face. The man had messy shoulder-length hair and sparse stubble. Only his eyes remained unchanged from all those years ago.
A bitter smile appeared on the man's face. He steadied Steve by the shoulders and helped