Three and a half blocks northeast of Stark Tower, a smartly dressed man stepped into a Starbucks. While waiting in line, he peered south towards the monolith and nervously fidgeted with his cane. The barista asked for his order: he asked for a grande caramel macchiato. After paying with exact change and stepping out into the street, he turned around and headed north on Park.

He was a gaunt man, with eyes that sparkled and a gait that spoke of royalty. Almost too pale to be real, his sunken cheeks betrayed furtive mouth twitches. While holding his coffee in his right hand, he adroitly navigated the New York 7 'o clock rush with nary a missed step. Doubtless, a New Yorker in all but name, but what Loki, God of Mischief, was so adept at concealing was his self-imposed exile from Asgard.

Sure, that assassin had gladly accepted his payment to kill the body double he had sent to Asgard. But with the knowledge that the Chitauri and Thanos were after him, Loki had been forced to use drastic measures to run away. He knew that Thor would not take his death well, but to return to him would take a courage that Loki wasn't sure he had yet. Last time, Thor had pulled him out of an airplane.

Despite the coffee cup warming his right hand, a chill reverberated throughout his body as he remembered that night in which Thor was so close to convincing him to go back.

"You will come home." As Thor's imperious blue eyes melted into something far softer and his breath hitched, Loki could see a devastated shadow of his older brother, a brother who had been mourning for months for him. Loki could imagine it well, holed up in the palace sobbing night after night and refusing to let Odin or Frigga comfort him. He would dream about the past and what he had done wrong. He would dream wistfully of the future, one with Loki in it. But that dream was shattered on that mountain.

Just as Loki nearly shattered his coffee cup when he realized just how far he had gone past his destination.


James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes cautiously opened his apartment door. With reflexes that were uncannily quick, he bolted down the hallway and into the elevator. Seventy floors down, he slipped into the driver's seat of his car, and sped off into Midtown Manhattan. It had not been easy eluding the likes of the KGB for the last forty years after he had gone rogue, but with Vladimir Putin still concerned with supplying weapons to Syria, he was guaranteed at least a little time off.

Since that fateful day on Dr. Zola's train, the Winter Soldier, as he was known to the Soviets, had been discovered, resurrected, and improved. The bionic arm that he now wielded was almost as good as a real one. The Soviets had done their best to replicate the Erskine Super Soldier Serum, and it seemed to be working with few ill effects. However, after an encounter with his old commanding officer, Bucky had fled.

Never mind he was still technically an American citizen, and he had called New York City his hometown, the city still looked wrong. Everything was slightly out of sync. The quiet determination of a people at war had long dissolved. Nearly all of the buildings he knew were long gone.

Still, he had a meeting to get to, and he was running late.


Author's Note: I admit I feel less satisfied with the Bucky portion of this chapter.