Author's note: Thanks to Distanceincrowdedrooms and Guests for your reviews! I wondered if this story would get fewer hits than my post-"Endgame" story ("The Third Life of Steve Rogers") just because it's set amid the older movies, and it is indeed getting fewer reviews, maybe for that reason, but I looked at the story stats and I am actually getting hundreds of readers for this one. Whoever you all are, thank you for your interest!

Chapter 16

"We got a hit," reported a bald agent with glasses seated at the computer display, his voice ringing across the helicarrier's bridge. The badge clipped to his suit read Sitwell, Steve noted. "Sixty-seven percent match. Wait... cross match, 79 percent."

Steve turned to look at Sitwell, suddenly attentive. So Dr. Banner's trace had worked. His heart beat a little faster. This was it. He was going to be sent back into combat.

"Location?" Coulson asked, going to look over Sitwell's shoulder.

"Stuttgart, Germany," Sitwell answered. "28 Konigstrasse. He's not exactly hiding."

Germany again. Steve was surprised to find himself comforted by that. It would be good to be somewhere familiar. Of course, the last time he'd seen Stuttgart, its beautiful and historic city center had been reduced to a pile of rubble, thanks to dozens of bombardments by the Allies as they sought to destroy the factories creating components for Nazi weaponry. He clearly remembered gazing down at the devastation from the vantage point of a B-17, heart aching on behalf of Dr. Erskine, who had briefly taught at the university there until the Nazis had forced him into service... and sent his wife to Auschwitz, along with thousands more of the city's population.

"Captain?" Fury's tone was grim. "You're up."

Steve met Fury's gaze and nodded seriously. Immediately, Coulson was at his elbow. "This way, Captain," he said, gesturing to the exit. Behind him, Maria Hill briefly met Steve's gaze, and gave him a silent nod of encouragement.

They left the bridge at a trot, Coulson reaching up to touch his earpiece as they went. "Agent Romanoff? We've located Loki," he said. "Time to suit up."

"On my way."

Coulson led Steve to a door with his own name painted in block letters, and ushered him inside. "Everything you need is in there," he said. "I'll get the jet scrambled." He touched his earpiece and began talking to someone else as the door slid shut between them.

Left alone in the room, Steve gazed at the storage compartment that held his Captain America gear, neatly on display as if it were a museum exhibit. A thrill of anticipation went through him, and for the first time in... how long?... he felt a rush of purpose shoot through him. Finally, he had someplace to go and something to do, something that really mattered. Something that wasn't about him. It was a heady feeling, one Steve had deeply missed.

It was spoiled a little by a current of uncertainty moving under the surface. Part of him wished Fury had brought him out into the field sooner, but another part of him worried what would happen when he faced action again. He'd never frozen during a battle, it was true, but then again he wasn't the same man he had been before. The old Steve Rogers was MIA. What if he had a bad episode and broke down in the middle of a combat zone? What if he let everyone down?

Fury wouldn't have sent me if he didn't think I could handle it, he told himself firmly.

He stepped closer to the compartment, his eyes roaming over the clothing. It didn't look much like the last uniform he'd put on as he'd prepared to face Schmidt. That one had had the colors permanently darkened by the grime of combat, with fabric thinning and edges fraying from frequent use and too little time for proper cleaning or repairs. This one was brand-new and all the colors still bright. In fact, it looked less like the combat uniform Howard Stark had created and more like the getup Senator Brandt's people had designed for him to wear on stage.

This isn't a uniform, he realized. It's a costume.

The intensity of the relief that he felt shocked him. So he wasn't being asked to be Captain America. He was being asked to play Captain America.

"Nothin' to it," he could hear Brandt's aide whispering to him as he shoved a prop shield into Steve's hand. "Sell off a few bonds, bonds buy bullets, bullets kill Nazis. Bing bang boom, you're an American hero."

All I gotta do is recite the lines, he realized. Get into character again. No one would ever need to know that the real Steve Rogers was gone, that someone else had taken his place the day he'd woken up from the ice. Breathing a little faster, he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off, and began to don his costume, one piece at a time.

Finally, once he had everything but the helmet on, he looked in the mirror. He looked less like a soldier and more like the Captain America depicted by the old comic book artists. The suit fit snugly and conformed perfectly to his body, the material thick and somehow bendable, almost like there was a layer of chainmail between the fabric layers. It must be resistant to melee weaponry, like the uniform Howard Stark had made for him, and maybe even bullet-proof. There were lots of pouches in the belt for grappling lines or knives or whatever else he would need. All in all, it was an odd fusion of practicality and theatrics.

"Bing bang boom," he repeated in a murmur, looking in the mirror at himself. "Nothin' to it."

There was only one thing missing. He looked over at his old shield where it was mounted at the back of his locker, perfectly round and highly polished. He took a deep breath and let it out. The vibranium shield wasn't part of any costume. Never had been. It was probably the realest thing in this room.

Carefully, he took the shield off the mount and held it in both hands, gazing down at it. As always, it felt lighter than it should. The original design had been duplicated, with concentric stripes of red and white surrounding a blue circle with a star in the center. The paint was completely pristine; in fact, it was so fresh he could still smell it. And once again, he was assailed with doubts about the power of this symbol. Would people really respond to it the way Coulson seemed to think? Steve wasn't so sure. Cynicism seemed to be the spirit of this age. He had a sneaking suspicion that a lot of people would sooner laugh at this kind of earnestness than be inspired by it.

But a new idea was growing in the back of his mind: maybe that didn't matter. People were free to believe in the old ideals or not. He didn't need to convince them. If he was the only one who believed anymore... then so be it. He could stand alone.

He moved to attach the shield to his back, and only belatedly realized that the costume had no place to mount the shield. He'd have to wear it on his arm. For some reason, he was reluctant to. He had been intrigued by the shield since the first moment his eyes had fallen on it and after innumerable battles together it had come to feel like an extension of his own body, and yet now he hesitated to wear it? He ended up holding it by the edge in one hand, down by his side, although it felt awkward.

There was only one thing left to do. He dug into the pocket of the slacks he'd taken off and found his compass. He placed it in one of his belt pouches and carefully fastened it shut. It had never been damaged in a battle, and he wasn't going to break that streak today.

He went out into the corridor. Coulson was waiting for him there, and instinctively Steve straightened up into the Captain America stance, shoulders back, feet apart, one gloved hand going to rest on his hip.

Coulson stared at him for a long moment, looking the costume up and down, and Steve felt a flush threatening to creep up. He couldn't tell if Coulson was thinking he looked incredibly ridiculous or incredibly heroic, and it was hard to tell which possibility made him more uncomfortable. But he tried not to let that show; he was in character, after all, and Captain America didn't care about how he looked. He only cared about doing his job the best way he could.

"Is it..." Coulson cleared his throat. "Does it fit okay? Is it... is it what you wanted?" He sounded a little anxious, and Steve remembered that Coulson had helped design the suit.

"It's just what I need to teach Loki a lesson he won't forget," Steve said briskly, and was pleased to find that the Captain America voice popped out right on cue. Apparently it was like riding a bike.

Coulson managed to look both relieved and excited at the same time. After a few seconds, he mostly succeeded in wiping the grin off his face, and held out a handgun in a holster, offering it to Steve.

Steve shook his head. "It'll just get in my way." He'd rarely used guns in battle since learning to use the shield offensively. He needed both hands for that, and his own technique gave him better control, anyway. With the shield, he'd never killed anyone he didn't mean to kill. You couldn't say that about an indiscriminate spray of bullets.

"Okay," Coulson agreed readily, although Steve had half-expected him to argue. The agent's trust in him was puzzling; he seemed to be high up in the command chain, which meant he must have read Hill's reports about the problems Steve had been having these last few months. How could he be more certain than Steve himself that...?

"I can do this," Steve suddenly blurted out, and immediately regretted it. Who was he trying to reassure? Coulson, or himself?

Coulson gazed at him levelly. "Of course you can," he said with perfect sincerity. "You're gonna be great."

Somehow, Steve couldn't help but believe him, and a slow, warm sensation filled his chest unlike anything he'd felt since waking up in this place. Coulson was a good man, and on impulse he opened his mouth to say just that, when the door right behind Coulson suddenly slid open and Agent Romanoff emerged.

She had traded her civilian clothing for her S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform, all black except a touch of red at the belt buckle. She had weapons strapped on both thighs, plus a pair of strange-looking wristlets at the cuffs of her sleeves. For the first time, Steve noticed the name on the door of her locker: "Black Widow." A call sign, or a code name? He realized he'd never actually been told what her job description was.

"We've got the jet in Hangar 4 all ready to go," Coulson told her, and Romanoff nodded. "I'll take him from here," she said.

Coulson gave Steve a brief smile. "Go get him, Captain," he said, and Steve hurried to keep up with Romanoff as she set off down the corridor at a brisk pace.

In minutes they had boarded the Quinjet, where a helmeted pilot was already waiting for them in the cockpit. The moment the loading ramp sealed up the cargo area, they took off into the clear blue skies.

Steve expected Romanoff to settle herself into the co-pilot's seat, but to his surprise she stayed back and strapped herself into one of the jump seats next to him. She kept glancing over at Steve as they rocketed through the sky, and a hint of a smile kept curving her lips every time she did.

"What?" Steve finally said as she looked over at him yet again, with a hint of mischief dancing in her eyes.

"They fed us a lot of Captain America propaganda," Romanoff said matter-of-factly. "At the school I went to."

"What school was that?"

Romanoff didn't answer for a long moment. "It was in Russia," she said finally. "Or the Soviet Union, I should say, before it collapsed."

"I read about that." He paused. "I'm sorry. It didn't sound like a good time to live there."

Romanoff shrugged one shoulder. "The Soviets were bad at some things — like feeding starving people — but they made up for it by being really good at other things. Like propaganda. Guess what they used to say about you?"

Steve sighed. "I can only imagine."

"Oh, it wasn't bad," Romanoff blithely assured him. "I mean, our countries were on the same side in your day, right? And if there's one thing the Soviets admired, it was power. What's not to like about a super soldier laying waste to German ambitions?"

"Terrific."

"Don't be grumpy. When I was little-" She dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "-I thought Captain America was totally rad." She smiled at him teasingly then, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. "Of course, all that 'rah-rah-America' stuff was a shame. Everyone in Russia knew that we were the ones who deserved credit for your creation. We helped fund the SSR, but those nasty Americans wouldn't let any of our personnel touch Project Rebirth with a 10-foot pole. For some reason, there were... trust issues. I can't imagine why."

"All that propaganda stuff," Steve said uncomfortably. "Sometimes people forget I was an actor."

"I know," Romanoff said coolly. "They taught me to act, too. The KGB. They called me the Black Widow. I was good, too. Really good. The best they had." The mischief had faded from her eyes, and suddenly she looked much older than she was. "The thing about acting is... underneath the costume, there's a real human being underneath, even if most of the audience never stops to think about that." Her eyes went distant. "Even if the actress herself forgets."

Steve studied her seriously for a moment. "So who was underneath your costume?"

Romanoff tried to smile, but didn't quite succeed. "Still working that out." She met his eyes. "To be honest, I think the part your people had you playing — cheesy as it was — was better than the part the Soviets had me play." She scrutinized him closely. "And who's under your costume?"

Steve took a moment to answer, and was surprised to hear himself admit, "I don't know."

Romanoff nodded a little. "Fury and Hill and Coulson think they know," she said. "They think you're going to be another Clint Barton for them." She looked him up and down and added with a hint of amusement, "on steroids."

"Barton?" Steve repeated, the name wringing a bell. "Wasn't he one of the agents Loki compromised? The marksman?"

Romanoff nodded silently.

"You knew him?"

"I know him," she said softly.

"And... am I?" Steve dared to ask. "Another one of him?"

She tilted her head and studied him with narrowed eyes. "Too soon to say. Your reputation says yes, but I have to warn you: I've been lied to so much in my life, I don't give my trust easily."

"But on the off chance everyone's right about you," she went on, "I'm going to ask you a favor."

He looked at her expectantly.

"If Loki sends Barton up against you," Romanoff said, "do me a favor, and don't kill him."

"I don't enjoy killing people," Steve said with a touch of weariness. "I only do it when I have to."

Romanoff shook her head. "That isn't good enough," she said seriously. "You have to promise me." She fixed her eyes on him intently. "We can't lose Barton. He's the best S.H.I.E.L.D. has."

"The file said he never misses," Steve remembered.

"He doesn't," Romanoff said. She paused. "But when I say that he's good, I'm not talking about his fighting skills."

Steve was quiet for a moment, thinking that over.

"Okay," he said. "I promise. I won't kill him."

He saw her shoulders visibly relax.

"You believe me," he noted curiously. "I thought you said you didn't give your trust easily."

"If you were lying, I would know," she said calmly. "I'm a spy, Rogers. I can't be damaged by my own weapons."

He nodded slightly. A spy. It made sense now, Romanoff's breezy, almost flirtatious attitude. It was calculated to lower people's defenses and make them feel it was safe to say what was really on their minds. She was pretty good at it, he realized with a start, and his eyes widened with sudden dismay. He'd just admitted to her — someone he'd met only that very day — his deepest, darkest secret: that he didn't know who he was anymore. A flush of shame washed over him. How could he have been so stupid, to let his guard down that far? She'd been trained by the KGB. From what he'd read, manipulation was the name of their game.

His mind raced back along the conversation they'd just had. She'd given him a sob story right off the bat. Made herself vulnerable to him. And like a trusting fool, he'd immediately responded in kind. And for what? All so that she could bat her eyes at him and ask him not to kill Barton? He looked back over at her, and she met his accusing eyes with a weary kind of resignation.

"It's a costume, Rogers," she said with a hint of impatience. "Like yours. Remember?" And with that, she unbuckled herself and went into the cockpit, settling down into the co-pilot seat and putting on a headset.

"Five minutes to Stuttgard," the pilot called back.

Steve immediately shoved his conversation with Romanoff to the back of his mind in a well-disciplined maneuver, and while he was at it, he stowed away the uneasy feeling he had that he might be in over his head. Heading out to go toe to toe with a self-proclaimed god suddenly didn't feel as much like confronting Schmidt as he had so blithely assumed earlier. But none of that mattered now.

It was time to go to work.

He covered his uncertainty by doing an equipment check. He ignored the guns on display — the briefing packet had explained that bullets had been ineffective against Loki at the Joint Dark Energy Mission Facility anyway. He grabbed a parachute pack and put it on, tightening the straps. Now all he needed was a radio. He glanced around the jet, expecting to see a row of handhelds ready to go, but there was nothing like that in sight.

"Where can I find a radio?" he asked.

Romanoff glanced back at him. "You have communications built into your helmet," she explained. "It runs off satellites in orbit. Better reliability and range than a radio."

Steve frowned. The receiver couldn't possibly be that tiny, could it? He reached back and pulled the hood up over his head, adjusting the helmet until it fit snugly and comfortably over his ears and around his eyes. Romanoff flipped a switch in front of her and said "Secure channel 4." He heard her voice directly in his ear, the audio coming in crystal clear.

"Channel secure," he responded automatically, and his voice came out of a speaker somewhere in the cockpit. There wasn't even a hint of static.

"We're coming up on Loki's location," the pilot warned, and Romanoff turned her attention back to the controls.

Steve stood behind the two of them, leaning forward to get a good look as they swooped down over Stuttgart's city center. He didn't know what he expected to see — the same apocalyptic scene he'd viewed back in 1944? — but of course the Germans would have rebuilt by now. Stuttgart would no doubt be a mass of soulless modern architecture, all metal and glass and towering skyscrapers, like every other city nowadays.

The Quinjet descended through the wispy clouds, and the central plaza came into clear view.

Steve drew back in surprise, and for one crazy moment, he thought he'd gone through a time machine like the one H.G. Wells had dreamed up.

Stuttgart's city center wasn't a pile of rubble. Nor was it a soulless modern replacement. In fact, it looked much like it must have before the Nazis had taken over. A large stone plaza, lit by lamps and edged by restaurants, was guarded at one end by a baroque palace, the area inside its three wings graced by fountains and a sprawling garden. At the other end of the plaza was the old museum, ornately columned and illuminated by moving searchlights.

Steve gazed down at it, amazed. The old city center had been wholly restored from the bombings. All of it just the way it had been before, right down to the soaring heights of St. Eberhard's just across the street, which he'd last seen as a bombed-out wreck. The whole area was filled with throngs of people enjoying their evening in peace and safety.

There was just one more detail to confirm. His eyes darted west, searching for one building in particular. When he found the site, he suddenly exhaled in relief. The building that had once housed the Nazi Party Headquarters was gone... and had been replaced by a movie theater, with families coming and going through its doors. Steve closed his eyes for a moment, reveling in an unexpected sense of gratification.

Something he'd saved had actually stayed saved.

"Look at that," the pilot said in dismay. He had switched on a screen that showed a closer view of the plaza below.

Steve leaned forward to gaze at the screen, which was showing a new source of illumination at the edge of the plaza. They watched as a police car, lights spinning as it turned a corner, suddenly flipped over in mid-air and went sliding down the street upside-down, haloed by a strange bluish glow.

Romanoff touched the controls and zoomed in on a man entering the plaza from the direction of the museum, brandishing a long staff that was also glowing blue. Steve recognized him from the briefing packet: Loki. The people in the plaza began surging in multiple directions like the waves in an ocean, trying to get away from him.

"He's taking hostages," Romanoff said grimly.

Steve held his shield in both hands for a moment and took a deep breath, bracing himself. This was it. He slid his left arm through the straps and tightened each one with a jerk. The leather was stiff and new and embraced his arm snugly, so that once again it felt like the shield was a part of him. He waited with a little trepidation, half-expecting to have his war flashbacks triggered by this potent reminder of his past, but all that came to mind was Peggy pointing a smoking pistol at him and saying acidly: "Yes, I think it works."

Against his will, he smiled.

"You ready for this, Cap?" Romanoff asked without turning around as the Quinjet descended toward the plaza.

"Probably too late to go to the bathroom, right?" he asked seriously.

Romanoff jerked her head around in surprise. Then she laughed lightly, looking both surprised and delighted by the joke. But not as startled as Steve himself was. Where had that come from? That wasn't a Captain America line... that was pure Steve Rogers.

Steve felt a brief surge of wild joy. He was still in there. Buried deep, maybe, but still alive.

Maybe he wouldn't have to act this part forever. Just long enough to get over the hump.

"Where do you want us to drop you?" Romanoff asked.

"Right on top of him."

Romanoff hit a control, and the door in the back of the jet opened. Without hesitation, Steve took a running leap off the edge and plummeted toward the ground. He waited to deploy his chute until the last possible moment, wanting to shave off as much time from his approach as possible, but as he fell he saw something in the plaza that widened his eyes in consternation.

There wasn't just one man brandishing a glowing blue staff. There were four of them. All identical, stationed at each corner of the plaza, blocking the panicked people from leaving the area. He could hear their screams now, even over the noise of the wind rushing past his ears. As he fell toward the plaza, he saw them all begin to fall to their knees.

Steve reached up and pulled the cord. His chute deployed, and abruptly he slowed down, giving him a chance to scan the terrain and make a rapid decision about where to come down. The four Lokis couldn't all be real. Somehow he was creating an illusion, one that was startlingly convincing, but it didn't take Steve long to decide which one was the real Loki.

Obviously, it was the one flapping his jaw.

Loki was raising his arms, strolling through the crowd and pontificating like a politician delivering a stump speech. He was wearing golden armor and a flowing green cape, with an enormous helmet on his head sprouting long, curving horns. And Steve had thought his costume bordered on the theatrical. The people knelt meekly before Loki, their attention fixed on him, but Steve was close enough now to see that they weren't impressed by his performance... they were terrified.

Except one man.

An elderly man was rising stiffly to his feet, turning to face Loki only a short distance away. He straightened his back, a lone figure in the midst of a sea of submission. As Steve watched, Loki pointed his staff — actually, he saw now that it was more like a scepter — at the old man, and the blue light at the tip flared. The old man's eyes widened with fear, but he stood his ground, making no attempt to run.

Suddenly Steve didn't care that these weren't his people, that this wasn't his time, that this wasn't his world to save. There was only a white-hot conviction that he was not going to let anyone die today. Not one single person.

Without hesitation he pulled the emergency release, and the parachute straps snapped and whipped away from him. He dropped like a stone and hit the ground in a crouch right in front of the old man just as Loki fired his weapon.

An energy blast struck his shield and bounced off, shooting unerringly right back toward the source. It struck Loki dead center, sending him flopping onto his belly. Several people cried out in alarm. Steve straightened up slowly, gazing through the curls of smoke rising from his shield.

Grimacing, Loki raised himself to his hands and knees, scepter still in hand, and met Steve's eyes with a furious expression. He looked like he could be human, with a pale complexion and dark glossy hair, except he had a mocking, almost elfin look to his face. Like Steve had always imagined the malicious faerie folk from the old Irish tales his mother had told him when he was small. This guy wasn't a fairy tale, though; he was very real, and and very dangerous. Steve could feel a surge of righteous anger flowing, and he gladly embraced the focus it gave him, taking care only to keep it under his usual tight control.

"You know," Steve said loudly, striding toward Loki, "the last time I was in Germany and saw a man standing above everyone else, we ended up disagreeing." All around him, people were beginning to rise to their feet as though a spell had been broken.

"The soldier," Loki said with disgust. He got back on his feet, and laughed derisively. "The man out of time."

So he'd known what to expect. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents Loki had brainwashed back at the Dark Energy facility — maybe Clint Barton himself — must have warned him who might be sent to stop him. Well, good. No need to waste time on introductions, then.

"I'm not the one who's out of time," Steve said, and behind him he could hear the Quinjet swooping low to hover over the plaza.

"Loki, drop the weapon and stand down," Romanoff said over the loudspeaker.

Instantly, Loki sent a blast of blue energy up into the sky, and the Quinjet's engine roared as it dodged the blast. Taking advantage of Loki's divided attention, Steve flung his shield at the man's chest, careful to use only a fraction of his strength. He was acutely aware of the need to capture rather than kill, so they could question him about the location of the Tesseract, and he wasn't sure how much of a beating Loki could take. Coulson had indicated that Asgardians were more resilient than humans, but to what degree? Better safe than sorry.

His shield bounced off Loki's breastplate, scattering sparks, and came back to Steve's hand. As abruptly as a thunderclap, everyone in the plaza scattered like birds in the wind, screaming and panicking. Already charging forward, Steve saw in a flash that Loki hadn't so much as taken a step backward from the blow. Guess it was safe to hit a little harder than that.

Steve swung his fist, aiming for the gap in the helmet and neatly connecting with Loki's left eye. Loki's head snapped to the side, but he stayed on his feet, and shot Steve an annoyed glance just before swinging his scepter in kind. Steve had just enough time to raise his shield, but the impact staggered him back. Instantly Loki swung the scepter again in the opposite direction, flinging Steve's shield arm outward, leaving his torso exposed. A third swing hit him in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him, and Steve went tumbling backward, managing to land in an alert crouch a short distance away.

He realized in a flash that Loki had experience fighting opponents carrying shields. That was something Steve had never encountered on the battlefield before, thanks to his unusual choice of weapon. He'd just lost one of his more dependable advantages.

Gritting his teeth, he flung his shield from his crouching position, and while Loki was turning to deflect it, charged toward him full-speed. He threw a punch, but Loki ducked it and swung out his scepter in a wide sweeping movement. Steve bent backward, catching himself on the ground with one hand, and felt the scepter whoosh harmlessly overhead. Loki instantly recovered and swung it back the other direction, but this time Steve was expecting that and bobbed down and to the left. Loki missed again, and Steve felt a fresh surge of confidence. He was starting to get the hang of how Loki moved.

The head of Loki's scepter struck the ground, sending out blue sparks, and while his weapon was briefly entangled Steve delivered a kidney punch, hitting much harder than he had last time. Unfortunately, his fist connected with solid metal: some piece of armor he hadn't been able to see, hidden by the green cape. He grimaced as pain shot up his arm, and before he could recover Loki twisted to the side and whacked him across the back with the scepter, a solid hit that once again sent Steve flying into the air. He came down onto the stone plaza hard, face down. He and Loki were in an open space now; most of the people in the plaza had fled.

Grunting, Steve pushed himself up on his arms, but Loki was already standing over him, pressing the butt of the scepter imperiously against the back of Steve's head.

"Kneel!" he ordered.

You've got to be kidding, Steve thought. Did he seriously expect a surrender already? They were only just getting started.

"Not today!" he retorted, batting away the scepter and then jumping to his feet, launching into a spinning kick in a direction Loki obviously didn't expect, because he actually managed to connect with the side of his head.

Loki staggered back and then growled angrily, grabbing Steve bodily and hurling him into the air. Steve hit the ground rolling. It hurt, but he barely noticed because he had just gotten an idea. If his strongest blows weren't enough to lay out Loki on the ground — and they apparently weren't — then he knew what he needed to do next. If he could bounce his shield off-

A horrible sound coming from the sky interrupted his train of thought. Rolling onto his back, Steve looked up in surprise at the Quinjet hovering over the plaza, its loudspeaker blaring something that almost resembled music, although the "singer" was screaming something about... shooting to kill? What the hell was Romanoff doing? Was this her idea of a distraction? Loki was staring up at the Quinjet too, looking as repulsed as Steve was by the noise.

A bright flare of light streaked across the sky, heading toward them both. Steve had only just enough time to recognize what it was a moment before a second flare of light shot out and struck Loki full-on in the chest.

Iron Man landed in the plaza with a metallic clank, down on one knee with one fist braced on the stones, and Loki flew backward and hit the steps behind him with an audible crack.

For one horrifying moment, Steve feared Loki had just broken his back, that he was going to die without breathing a word about the Tesseract's location, and he scrambled to his feet, staring at Iron Man in disbelief. Had they just lost everything? The Tesseract... they couldn't lose track of the Tesseract. Nothing else mattered.

Iron Man rose up into a battle stance and pointed both arms at Loki, his armored suit flaring light as various weapons popped up from his shoulders and back.

"Make your move, Reindeer Games," a man's voice said, echoing a little from inside the helmet. Steve came to stand by Iron Man's side.

Loki sat up painfully — to Steve's great relief — looking wan and defeated. He slowly put up his hands in an apparent surrender, and a golden glow spread across his body until gradually his battle helmet and his scepter disappeared into thin air.

"Good move," Iron Man said with wry approval.

Iron Man — with Tony Stark inside, presumably — didn't even glance at Steve. The helmet on his head made him look like he had a permanent scowl on his face. It was impossible to know what Stark's true expression was inside there, just like with Schmidt's goggled Hydra goons... but Steve shut down that train of thought instantly and worked to control his distaste. He wasn't being fair. Like his father, Tony Stark was doing what he could to help with the war effort. His suit of armor... it was just a shield, one that covered his whole body. Steve didn't know much about mechanical engineering, but the suit looked like it was cleverly constructed. It was obviously battle-tested and being put to good use.

But why hadn't Fury told him backup was coming? They could have coordinated their attacks. Suppose he and Stark had hit each other with friendly fire by mistake? It was only pure luck that they hadn't.

"Mr. Stark," Steve said politely, determined to start off on the right foot with the man, even if Fury had bungled their meeting.

Stark nodded toward him ever so slightly. "Captain."

"Agent Romanoff," Stark continued, and this time Steve heard the voice coming through his own helmet. Somehow Stark had tapped into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s com system. "I've got a package for you. I'm about to truss it up like a Christmas turkey."

"You always bring me the nicest presents, Mr. Stark," Romanoff said.

"Don't even start with the sweet talk," Stark said lightly. "You're still fired."

The Quinjet engines grew louder as it descended toward the plaza. Steve glanced around. Most of the civilians had fled, although a few were still cowering insensibly on the ground or behind lampposts. Steve realized they would have to be evacuated from the area before the Quinjet could safely land. Suddenly, his eye fell on the one man remaining in the plaza who was not frozen by fear. In fact, he was standing straight and tall despite his age, keeping his eyes locked on Loki as Stark bound the prisoner's hands. In a flash, Steve recognized him as the same old man he had saved from Loki's attack only a few minutes before.

Decisively, he moved closer to the old man and caught his eye.

"Flugzeuge werden auf dem platz landen," Steve said, warning him that the Quinjet was going to land in the plaza, and then asked him in German if he could help clear the area.

"Ja," the man said readily.

"Halte sie ruhig," Steve added. "Alles unter kontrolle." Keep them calm, everything is under control.

The man nodded, and turned to speak in voluble German to the people still cowering on the ground, ushering them gently but firmly away from the plaza. Satisfied that the man had everything under control, Steve turned back to keep an eye on Loki.

"Kapitän?" the old man called back, and Steve turned back to look at him questioningly.

"It is good to have you back," the man said in perfect English, and with the utmost dignity he gave Steve a solemn salute.

Steve couldn't help but smile. "It's good to be back," he admitted as he saluted in return, and he felt a flash of something that felt almost like happiness. Could he have said as much yesterday? Probably not.

He rejoined Stark, and together they watched over a glum-faced Loki as the Quinjet landed. It seemed like the fight was over, but Steve felt inexplicably uneasy, and he trusted his instincts well enough to listen to them.

The weaponry in Stark's suit was impressive, and while the percussive blast he had unleashed had certainly thrown Loki back with a respectable amount of force, Steve was certain it hadn't been all that much more powerful than his own blows had been. And yet Loki had surrendered after taking only one shot, despite the fact that he wasn't even visibly injured.

Something wasn't right. Loki had just put on a deliberately public display, complete with costumes, props and a whole lot of bluster. A man with an ego that oversized wouldn't surrender so easily, especially in front of an audience; he would find it too humiliating. Which meant something else was going on here.

The natural conclusion was that Loki had intended to lose the fight. But why?

Steve immediately thought of his own plan to be captured during the final assault on Hydra's base of operations, knowing he would be brought to Johann Schmidt to have his "failure" rubbed in his face, and in the meantime the Howling Commandos had simply tracked Steve's location, enabling them to aim their attack directly into the heart of the base when the moment was right. Could Loki, too, have allies waiting in the wings? As powerful as he was, it seemed incredible that he would attempt to steal something as valuable as the Tesseract with no backup.

Frowning, Steve scanned the plaza and then the skies above, but he saw nothing amiss. Was he being paranoid? Loki had arrived through the power of the Tesseract. If he could bring in allies that way, surely he would have already done it. Instead, he was here in Germany, alone, playing games with them. He hadn't even brought in the brainwashed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents for backup during the fight.

Norse myth portrayed Loki as a god of mischief. But what was his motivation for stirring up this kind of trouble? If he wanted the Tesseract so badly, why not simply take it and leave Earth the same way he had came? Why stick around at all?

TO BE CONTINUED

Author's note: I don't speak German, but like Dr. Strange, I am fluent in Google Translate. Hopefully I didn't butcher those lines of German, but if I did, I hope any German readers will forgive me. :-) I'd love to know what you think now that my story is meshing with the movie; leave a review and share your thoughts!

Next chapter: Hello, Thor!