There are moments one never forgets.

Three boys scampering down a Brooklyn alleyway. A blond boy in the lead, easily the tallest of the three, sporting a mischevious glint in his eyes. Bucky follows, neither going so fast as to leave little Steve far behind.

Summers of boyhood spent in the quiet streets on early Sunday mornings before their parents would hustle them off to church. Sacred afternoons in the park swinging bats and pitching baseballs, more preoccupied with reenacting the plays of their idols than actually practicing the game. Rays of sunshine admist the many days spent in hospitals, Steve in a bed with needles in his arms and his two friends wearing permanent holes in the floor of the waiting room.

There are few bonds stronger than those of unconditional friendship born in the cradle of childhood. The anchors between Caleb, Bucky, and Steve never broke loose. They were dubbed the "Three Muskateers" throughout high school, despite running with different crowds. Caleb, a crowned jock, tall, athletic, with an incredibly corny charm that almost everyone fell for. Bucky was never seen without at least one girl on his arm, a sophisticated class clown that still flew by with top grades. Steve, attendance rocky due to his health, immersed himself in art, though was ever restless, wanting to escape the confines of his broken body.

When the war broke out, Caleb was the first sign up. Although the youngest of the three, he was an ideal candidate, impressive physique and a fiery patriotic zeal. His deployment seemed to come in a blink of an eye, and Bucky and Steve were there to salute him off, waiting for day he'd come back home and they would toast to his victories in their favorite bar.

Instead, they received a letter.

The two friends did go drinking that night, and it was the first time Steve ever truly got drunk. Despite the blazing hangover, it was a decision he didn't regret.

Nothing was the same after that day. Steve's desire to join the military escalated to an obsession, something Bucky desparately tried to discourage, not wanting to lose yet another friend. Even when the draft came and Bucky was conscripted, the man was determined, no matter the circumstances, that one of them would survive this. And despite everything the doctor's said, that person had to be Steve.

Steve remembers stalking the streets one night soon after, seething. He had tried again to enlist, but was turned down, was refused from his basic right to fight for the people he cared so much for. He found himself wandering into a convenience store, and something caught his attention briefly. It was the cover of a new comic book introducing the character "Captain Atomic". Steve chuckled to himself at the name, but the face was so eerily familar, as if it were drawn from a picture of his old friend. The hair, eyes, angle of the jaw, came together to form the cartoon ghost now staring back at him. He picked up the book, flipping through the first few pages of this soldier turned superhero who's life was saved with an experimental battery after being hit with a radioactive bullet.

The bullet that had hit Caleb hard torn him to pieces.

Steve abrubtly shoved the comic back onto its stand, bile rising in his throat.

Years later, there were many times Steve would look into the mirror, dressed in his suit, and remember that goofy cartoon hero with Caleb's face. It was no longer a painful memory, but part of the reason he'd grown so attatched to it in the first place. It was the sort of thing his friend would have worn without the coercion of a skilled politician. Now on him, a melancholy reminder of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice for their country.

It had been more on his mind lately, ever since two years ago when he discovered Bucky to be alive. Brainwashed and mutilated, but alive.

He needed to find him, but tracking down the Winter Soldier discreetly enough to evade Nick Fury and the other Avengers was no easy task, even with Sam Wilson by his side.

The world had not ceased turning for his quest. Disaster was striking with increasing regularity, as evidenced by his presence here, on ruined streets sunk into pitch black.

One month ago, Centuim City had been a bustling hub giving New York City a run for its money. Within the span of a day, the entire city plunged into darkness and chaos. No one new why; every law enforcement officer and Shield agent sent it so far were dead or missing. A third of the buildings had been reduced to rubble, and the number of casualities seemed to be rising. Most unusual though, were the bodies being strung up on display, dressed in strange, almost comic-book attire.

The Avengers were scoping out the northwest part of the city, which had been largely abandonned by the surviving citizens. Some corpses dotted the streets, but overall everything was mild compared to the reports coming from closer downtown.

Natasha strides several yards ahead of him, her gaze wandering over to a hunched figure slumped in a narrow alleyway. She taps the side of her slim night vision goggles, also equiped with a thermal scanner. "This one's alive," she announces flatly as she jogs over.

Steve catches up, bending down to survey the man. He is stressed strangely, like the bodies strung up on display, his suit a mix of royal blue and red. Blood is so matted in his hair Steve can't tell the color. After checking his weak pulse as Natasha comms Stark, he lifts the up the man's head.

His heart drops as he looks into the face of Caleb Denman.