This can also be found on AO3 under the username LoremIpsum and on Tumblr under the URL avenger-shaped-plotholes.

July 27th, 2010

Once, the building at the end of the National Mall had housed the Lincoln Memorial, but in 2006 the statue had been ripped down, along with many other such landmarks. Abraham Lincoln stood for too many ideals that did not line up with Hydra's vision for the world. The crumbling ruins of the statue were still there, but hidden by a rough scaffold. The foundations of a new statue had been laid on top of it, but no one save the architects yet knew what it was supposed to represent. No one was working on it now. It was not that it was too early; even in the grey pre-dawn light there was usually a crew of government-selected architects already at work. Today, Hydra needed the space for something else.

Crowds gathered in front of the steps to what had once been the Lincoln Memorial. Attendance wasn't mandatory. It didn't have to be.

Iron Man had been in Hydra's custody for three months, but the novelty of the revelation that former billionaire and weapons contractor Tony Stark was not only alive but had taken to flying around in a red and gold metal suit and to all intents and purposes heading up the liberation movement against the fascist movement still had not worn off. Even in the face of his impending public execution, people were curious. People were chattering. People were sharing every well-told story of the man - the hero, as some would say.

One of those people was currently standing on the tips of her toes in an effort to see the steps better, prattling away in nervous distraction to a complete stranger who was standing just behind her. She didn't give him more than a glance; he was tall, blond, and carried an oversized backpack, but other than that there was nothing particularly remarkable about him. "Hydra's… well, you know, not wrong, you know, not wrong, but mistaken, overreacting, you know. Iron Man's not a bad guy. He wants to help people, to save them from - you know, sometimes Hydra doesn't think about that enough. Helping people. Much at all, really, you know."

"You mean they're wrong," the man said quietly. The woman looked back in concern. He forced a smile that he clearly wasn't feeling. "It's fine. I'm not going to report you."

The woman shrugged and turned back to the front. "Okay, so they're wrong. There. I said it. I think Hydra hurts people for no good reason. Iron Man doesn't."

The whispering of the crowd fell silent as a truck pulled up and slammed to a halt. The back opened and two men in Hydra uniforms jumped out. Behind them a man in grey prison scrubs, his hands cuffed in front of him, was shoved out of the back of the truck. He stumbled, but didn't fall, and looked up over his shoulder at someone still in the truck. "Easy on the goods." His voice could be heard across a fair portion of the crowd. "Worst hospitality ever. Giving that one club in Rio a run for its money." His attitude belied the ragged, overgrown facial hair and the bruises that could be seen as far back as the two criticizers.

The woman bit the fingers of her left hand for a moment. "My sister wanted to leave, after they took over the U.S.," she said, quiet enough that only her fellow dissenter could hear. "Before they got Germany. She was going to go there. No particular reason. She fit into their new society well enough. We didn't lose anyone close. She just didn't think it was right. She didn't want to be a part of it. The night before they were supposed to leave this gang showed up, hail Hydras out the wazoo. Then Iron Man showed up. I don't know where my sister is but she's alive. I think she's alive."

Iron Man was shoved towards the steps, complaining all the way. "Wow, wow, I can walk. Look at me, putting one foot up in front of the -" He tripped a few steps up and barely caught himself with his bound hands. The two guards walking behind him didn't wait for him to get up again. They grabbed him by his shoulders and started to drag him. About two thirds of the way up the steps he managed to regain his feet. At the top of the stairs another man stepped out from behind one of the pillars and stood, hands clasped behind his back. At a distance it was hard to tell, but he was glaring at the prisoner with barely concealed enmity.

"Alexander Pierce," the woman said. "One of the top dogs. You know, I think he offed the rest of the World Security Council to get where he is. I really do. I don't care if it's a conspiracy theory. I believe it. He's the type. Even if he didn't, he would've. Look at the man."

Her companion was already looking. "Does he have something against Tony Stark? Personally?"

"Who doesn't? I mean, who doesn't who's in charge. But yeah. Yeah. The Lissing Court-Martial. Remember? Iron Man punched him through a wall? Don't you remember? You been living under a rock?"

"Something like that," the man replied. He swung his backpack off and set it on the ground at his feet with a solid clunk, then knelt down and began to unzip it.

Tony Stark reached the top of the steps. Most people could hear his voice echo across the National Mall, but only those close to the front could clearly make out his words. "How long have you been standing there waiting for a dramatic entrance? Seriously, did you drag your ass out of bed early for that?"

Pierce didn't respond. There must have been a microphone attached to his collar, because when he spoke his voice rang out across the crowd, projected by speakers. "Anthony Stark is an anarchist. He has disrupted the peace, he has disobeyed the law and encouraged others to disobey the law, and he has committed acts of terrorism. For the sake of order and public safety, he will be put to death." One of the guards unholstered a handgun and raised it.

"Aw, man. I was hoping for a guillotine," Stark said.

The woman rolled off of the tips of her toes and lowered her eyes. "He's not a bad guy," she said again. She stretched up to see and then changed her mind. "I don't think he should die. But I'm not him. I'm not Iron Man. There's nothing I can do."

"Actually, there is." The blond man behind her stood up, leaving his backpack on the ground, forgotten. Even as the woman turned back to see what he meant, a few other people standing around saw the object in his hands and gasped in surprise. Several backed away.

The white and red stripes on the shield flashed in the early morning light as the man raised it, tested its weight unconsciously in his hands. His eyes narrowed as he examined the scene before him, calculating a flight path. The line of his shoulders marked the moment he found one that satisfied him, an easy, battle-ready tenseness settling across his body. Fingers closed a little tighter on the rim of the shield and he pulled back, readying himself for the throw.

"Get out of the way."