So, here is chapter 8. I hope it's as entertaining to read as it was writing it - and pleasantly surprises you too ;)
Once again, many thanks to the lovely npeg for editing a huge chunk of it. Her way with words is magical I swear ;_; 3

Songs on constant repeat were:

"Your Revolution Is A Joke" – Funeral for A Friend

"Bad Dream" – Keane (I am cry TT_TT)

"Comeback" – Redlight King

As per usual, I don't own anything. Descriptions of and references to actual locations are purely for fictional purposes based on the MCU continuity etc.

Also, you could fry an egg on my laptop right now...

Words from the Great Beyond

1 mile south of Silver City, New Mexico...

A jeep pulled up outside a small military camp of sorts and several men, dressed in black, exited the vehicle. Members of the camp had been monitoring the jeep's approach carefully, and out of precaution they had wasted no time in stationing a welcoming committee at the campsite's perimeter. The strangers stopped before a barricade of guards, each wearing standard-issue bulletproof vests and armed with a rifle. They bore a red band on their left arms, a symbol of their allegiance. Two of the men, one a little shorter than the other and both armed, moved towards the front of the line and stood between the entrance and the approaching strangers, denying them access.

"You lost?" The shorter guard asked sarcastically.

One of the strangers stepped forward and made his position perfectly clear. The eye-patch spoke for itself.

It was Colonel Nicholas Fury himself, apparently in good health too, despite barely escaping "death" 8 months earlier. The two men lowered their weapons a little but remained dubious.

"Thought you were 'sposed to be lyin' dead somewheres?" The shorter guard drawled at him. "You're lookin' pretty spritely for a dead guy."

"I want to see your commanding officer," said Fury, blankly ignoring his comment.

"'Fraid he's not here," the guard responded flatly, giving the men in front of him a repugnant look. "Doesn't take too kindly to S.H.I.E.L.D thugs – says they can't be trusted."

The other guard adjusted his grip on his rifle but said nothing. The air was certainly heavy with contempt, almost mimicking a classic stand-off as long silences and threatening glares were exchanged. Then Fury smirked.

"I have an idea. Why don't you tell me where he is, and I'll let Rambo here keep his knee caps," he said, nodding at the silent guard who – incidentally – was the heaviest one there. He was built like a brick shithouse, most likely a bodyguard or guerrilla in his previous occupation, and didn't say much at all. Fury continued, "Then the two of you can get back to playing with your toy soldiers."

The smaller guard squeezed his rifle, clearly irked.

"How's 'bout you and your goon squad take a hike, huh? Before I put a bullet in your good eye."

As the exchange continued, growing more heated – and the threats more violent, a young man working on a broken army radio unit overheard the argument from one of the tents and cautiously made his way over to the barricade, to see what all the fuss was about.

"I asked nicely, but you're getting on my last nerve," said Fury with growing impatience as he moved a hand to his holster. "Tell me where your commanding officer is or I'll paint the desert with your insides." His hand touched the butt of his gun as he sneered, "Just to make a point."

"Are you looking for Commander Rogers?" asked a new voice.

This brought the stand-off to an abrupt halt. Fury and the other men stopped and turned their heads.

"And if I am?" said Fury, a little annoyed at the interruption.

The young man stood rather sheepishly. Brushing his impossibly luscious sweeping brown hair out of his eyes, he blinked, looking between the two groups before clearing his throat to speak again.

"Well, if you are looking for him, he's not at the camp."

Fury raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

The young man nodded.

"Do you know where he is now?" Fury asked.

The smaller guard seemed rather pissed at the young man's interfering and shot him an unsavoury look, snapping, "Mind your own business, Parker. We're not cooperating with the likes o' them, so keep your mouth shut."

Fury narrowed his eyes at the guard before turning back to the jeep with his men. He motioned for the young man to come to him.

"Parker, is it?"

The man nodded in affirmation. "Peter Parker, sir," he addressed the director correctly and concisely, "Engineer Officer." He shot a look at the two guards frowning behind them. "They're not cooperating with you, but I don't see why I shouldn't."

Fury smiled as Peter said, "Commander Rogers is in Silver City, about a mile north of here."

"Can you take us to him?"

Peter nodded and slid into the jeep with the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D men. He noticed the resentful looks on the guards' faces and smiled mockingly as they drove off up the dirt road, waving cheerfully just to rub salt into the wound.

"If you don't mind me asking sir…" Peter began, "What's the deal with S.H.I.E.L.D? I mean, I thought it was defunct after Loki's men levelled the bases months ago. Until just now, I guess we all did. Commander Rogers hasn't heard from anyone since the attacks on Central. He told me you were dead."

"I am," Fury said coolly, "Or at least that's what I want Loki to keep thinking. Lucky for everyone, those bases weren't the only ones out there."

"So you've been in hiding, all this time?"

"Not hiding – lying low."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

Fury eyed the inquisitive young man next to him as Parker continued to speak.

"What about Washington? What about LA and the rest of the country that needed S.H.I.E.L.D's help? Where were you when the country was falling apart? Why aren't you helping?"

"We are helping," Fury replied flatly.

"Doesn't seem that way to me," Peter bit back.

The director didn't flinch at all when he spoke, just stared at the boy who stared right back, waiting for a response. He had a lot of nerve for a kid barely out of high school, and that reminded Fury of Rogers' frankness in a way. So the director just smiled enigmatically, and answered.

"Then we're doing our jobs just fine."

Peter didn't know what to make of that, and the director's stare was becoming very intimidating.

"He's right about you," said Peter, refusing to break eye-contact, "You really are crooked."

Fury leaned forward. "Let me give you a nickel's worth of advice, kid. Keep your secrets. They'll come after you if you set them free."

. . .

Like most places since Loki's influence took hold, Silver City had seen better days. It had the look and feel of a ghost town. There was more life in its cemetery than in the few remaining inhabitants who chose to stay after the riots.
A little ways into the town was a small church. Many of its stained-glass windows had been smashed, its furniture upturned or looted, but there remained a row of candles at the altar, and one of them burned faintly in the dim light.
Steve sat at the end of the front row, watching the candle's flame dance in the still air. He often came to this place to find some peace – to be alone with his thoughts. There was very little solitude anywhere in the camp, and even less compassion for that matter, so moments such as these were rare.
He'd been staring at the flickering light for some time, recalling things from recent memory – fights against the growing strength of Loki's forces and his supporters, men and women who considered Loki a prophet and worshipped him. It pained Steve immensely to think that so many people believed in such a monster and that so many of them had killed or had been killed in his name. More times than he could count Steve had come to this place to close his eyes against the present, and yet more times he had prayed to God that when he opened them he would wake from this nightmare. But God never answered, and the nightmare never ceased.

"Please…" Steve muttered to the small lick of flame, "Give me strength. Show me the way – a way – to end this."

The small flame flickered, and an entirely unexpected voice replied.

"I think we may be able to answer that prayer, soldier."

Steve turned abruptly to see Fury stood by the church's entrance. The director walked slowly down the aisle, hands behind his back, the heels of his boots clicking on the dusty tiled surface.

"Took us a while to find you, Captain."

"Didn't think you were lookin'," said Steve, turning to face the altar again. Fury sat down next to him. "And it's Commander now."

"So I heard," Fury smiled. "Had the pleasure of meeting some of your men back at the camp. Fine group you got there. Where'd you dig 'em up? The state sanatorium?"

Steve's jaw tensed. "They're loyal and willing to fight for their country," he muttered, "I can't ask for more than that."

"They're mercenaries with itchy trigger fingers," Fury said pointedly. "They don't care what they shoot, as long as they get to shoot something."

"Sounds like some people I used to know," Steve said coldly, remembering New York. Those memories had made him increasingly bitter when it came to questions of loyalty. Trusting S.H.I.E.L.D had done very little to save the world from itself thus far. In fact, it had all but brought this disaster down upon their heads, singlehandedly. The division was at the very least instrumental in the apparent downfall of government, society, and civilisation as they knew it. No. There was no way he was going to be that naïve again.

"Steve… We need you," Fury said quietly, eyes on the broken crucifix hanging above the altar before them. "Hell, the world needs you. But you're not making a mark on Loki's page riding from town to town with a band of misfits. This isn't the A-Team."

"And you are, are you?" Steve snapped. "Tell me, where was S.H.I.E.L.D when this country slipped into hell?"
Peter could hear his words thunder down the aisle through the opening in the doorway, and moved slowly, inconspicuously, to peer inside.

"In fact, why don't you explain why? Why are we in hell,Nick?"

Surprisingly, Fury didn't seem as stunned by Steve's outburst as Peter was. The young man was still stood in the doorway, eavesdropping on his leader and the mysterious agent sat next to him. Steve knew he was listening, and it offered his temper some validity, in a way. He wanted Peter to see the extent of his feelings for S.H.I.E.L.D, and to understand the reason for them.

"Steve –"

"–I haven't heard a word from you since Loki took Washington," Steve retorted angrily, interrupting. "You were dead as far as I knew. And S.H.I.E.L.D? S.H.I.E.L.D. was a smoking wreck in the harbour, empty buildings and empty files. Months I spent recruiting those men and women, fightin' Loki's bootlickers. Months. They're some sort of… of cult now. They seek out families who don't support him and beat them in the streets until they're too blind with fear to see any differently. Those mercenaries you met,in that camp? They help protect the people who can't pull that trigger. They're willing to put themselves, their safety, their lives, on the line to protect the ones who can't protect themselves – every damn day." Steve was breathing heavily as he spat out, "So don't tell me we're not making a difference. You don't get to say that, because you're not here. You haven't been here for a long, long time."

"Look, just because we're not guarding the barricades doesn't mean we're not fighting the war," said Fury earnestly, after a long moment. "We've not been idle in exile, Commander. We've been… working… on something – something that I believe could not only match Loki's forces but actually run them into the ground. And with my best man on board, we might just be able to pull it off."

Steve narrowed his eyes at the Director questioningly. This sounded an awful lot like Phase-2 business, and after New York, the weapons that had cost him the lives of two of his comrades-in-arms were the very, very last thing Steve wanted to involve himself with. He wanted nothing to do with WMDs because it was WMDs that had got them here in the first place.

"What is it?" he asked curtly, instead.

"Your uniform," Fury smiled, "Your new uniform."

"Really?" Steve said drily, unmoved by Fury's great reveal. "You're offering me an outfit, Fury? I appreciate the offer, but the one I'm wearing works just fine." He patted his vest to make his point as he stood to leave. He had barely made it to the aisle before the Director spoke again.

"It's a lot more than just an outfit, Commander," said Fury, determined to make his point before Steve could disappear. "I'm offering you a suit."

As he moved to walk away, Fury said clearly, just loudly enough, "It belonged to a friend of yours – one Anthony Stark."

Steve stopped suddenly. He muddled his words under his breath, trying to make sense of what Fury was actually proposing, but at the doorway Peter was struggling to contain his excitement. The young man made a choking noise, and that caught the attention of the two men inside the church.

Busted.

Fury, for one, was more than a little pissed at his snooping. Steve was hardly surprised, considering he actually knew anything about Peter at all.

The director beckoned Peter in with a crooked finger. "Got something to add, Parker?"

Peter cleared his throat. "Sorry, sir, I just… I overheard you say something about Mr Stark and a… a suit?" He paused for a second or two, literally feeling the holes being burned into him by the intense glares of the two men down the aisle. "It's just, I'm a huge fan of his work – I mean, I was – I still am…! And I could, y'know, maybe, help out? I know a lot about –"

Steve glanced over his shoulder at Fury before eying the young man in the doorway.

"Not interested," he said flatly, cutting Peter off, and marched up the aisle and out of the church.

An old Harley was parked on the curb just outside, and Steve was quick about sitting his ass down on the seat. A moment later, Peter skidded out of the church, appearing at his elbow.

"Sir, I really think you should go with Director Fury," Peter insisted, "That armour could help us. We don't have that kind of offensive capacity anymo–"

"That armour isn't helping anybody," Steve snapped, more violently than he intended. His fingers tightened on the bike's handlebars.

He had every intention of riding away, far away, anywhere to escape S.H.I.E.L.D's hands. They were bad news, but just like his past, they were impossible to outrun. He just sat there instead, his hands on the handlebars, waiting for Fury's attempt to convince him that what they had planned was really their ticket out of hell. And, right on cue, Fury stepped out of the church and made his way over.

"I don't see why you can't get someone else to pilot it – someone who understands how it works," said Steve.

"It's one thing to know how to use it, but how you put it to use is what really counts."

Then, straitening his posture, Fury made his next words very clear.

"I'm not looking for a pilot. I'm looking for a leader. And take it from me; they aren't the kinds of things you build in a workshop. Leaders are born, not made."

Steve squeezed the handlebars of his bike yet tighter.

"Sorry to disappoint," he murmured, "but I'm not the guy you're lookin' for."

Then he revved the engine and sped off up the road northbound, out of town. He didn't look back.

Peter was stunned at the soldier's response. No one in their right mind would turn down the opportunity to pilot Tony's armour, especially considering doing so was essentially tantamount to flat out refusing possibly the World's only chance of winning the war. Steve Rogers had done both in the space of less than five minutes without batting an eyelid. He frowned sharply.

"I should go after him," he said before Fury held out an arm to stop him.

"Easy, hotshot. He'll make the right choice, just give him some time," the Director insisted, watching the bike grow fainter in the dust trail rising in its wake.

"Besides," Fury added, "I've got a pretty good idea where he's going."

. . .

Steve drove for hours, barely stopping unless it was completely necessary. It gave him time to really think about Fury's request, and more importantly why he was running away from it. But the more he thought about it the less he understood. He couldn't find an answer. So, he kept on driving.
Before he knew it he had driven almost 700 miles through three states without much recollection of how and for how long. He found himself on the war-torn streets of Los Angeles, keeping the low growl of his Harley off of any main roads in the fading light. Evening was fast approaching, but that would not guarantee him adequate cover from the ever-watchful eyes of Loki's men.

Why on earth had he come to such a place? Major cities were dangerous – far too heavily populated despite civil unrest, and almost entirely under Loki's control. But, despite his usual clear-headed reasoning, despite his caution, his cold logic, something had pulled him back to the state of California.

A little further into the city he came across a place that tugged at a memory. It seemed so… familiar. He pulled up outside its borders, cutting the ignition as he parked the dust-ridden bike by the curb. Rubbing his dry eyes he blinked at his surroundings in the dim light, and then it hit him like a freight train.

He'd been here before.

The trees, the lush grass – a little overgrown and obviously unkempt – and the crisp white of the headstones that lined the grounds pulled him in. Steve wandered along its path with strange remembrance, knowing the way to a destination he had seldom visited. Why he had come, for what reason in its unhinged state his mind had urged him to travel such a distance, he was not yet certain. But as he passed the faceless names inscribed on the rows upon rows of stone and granite gravestones, he knew that it was of great importance, because he realised then that he had come a long way to visit someone.

He stopped when he reached the name he had been looking for, and after allowing himself a little time to gather his thoughts, he spoke.

"Hey, Tony."

Steve stood before the black marble headstone in quiet contemplation, his mind still unsettled as he struggled to piece together a speech of some kind.

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm here," he sighed. "Truth is… I don't really know myself."

Steve's reflection glared back at him with judgemental eyes from within the gloss finish, waiting for him to speak the words he had come so far to say. But they would not leave his lips. Instead, they lingered there on the tip of his tongue, refusing to find his voice. He knew what that suit, that armour, could do. Fury had offered it to him freely, and with it, he had offered him power; power to change their fate. The fate of the resistance. They could be masters of their fate once more. The armour could unite them – a symbol in the discord and terror of Loki's rule, the chaos he had wrought.

But could he do it?

In his heart, Steve wanted some confirmation, some form of consent – the kind he could only get from Tony. He wanted to know that piloting the suit was the right thing to do, not only because he lacked the skills to use it, but because it was not his or any other's to pilot in the first place. After all, that technology had been kept from the government for a reason.

"What do I do?" he murmured to the cold blank stone, desperately hoping for a reply and expecting none.

What use was there in talking now? He could ask questions all he liked, but it would not bring him any closer to finding the answers.

"I'm not sure if I can do what you could – the suit, I mean. It's – it's not me," he began, clearing his throat as he chose his words carefully. "It's flashy and, well, very you… but that kind of power… it's not something I can control…"

Suddenly, Steve's monologue was interrupted by an impossibly familiar voice behind him.

"Well, it is flashy I'll give you that one. But I think the colour really suits you."

The soldier whipped round in surprise, practically giving himself whiplash, to see someone in that moment that he honestly could not have expected less. The familiar figure was leaning arms crossed against another headstone, with no respect for its owner. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a familiar Black Sabbath T over a long sleeved shirt that clung to his frame. The man's dark eyes studied the soldier curiously and he pulled one of his trade-mark smug faces.

Tony Stark, a man who had been dead – was dead – for almost a year stood there in perfect health in the light of dusk. Steve didn't know whether to slap himself or bolt.

"Brings out your eyes," the late-genius continued.

"T-T-To –"Steve stammered.

"What's this – Spangles speechless?" Tony grinned. "Glad to see I still make an impression. More successful with the ladies, though. Usually."

Steve closed his mouth after gaping like a slapped carp and gulped nervously, but his expression of utter astonishment remained. If his eyes had opened any wider he would have accurately resembled a Tim Burton character.

"But you're… you're –"

"–Excruciatingly handsome? Why yes, yes I am –"

"–dead," Steve managed to force out. The smaller man unfolded his arms and pushed himself lazily from the headstone to stand before him.

"That's also true," the apparition said smugly. Steve's head swam.

"I think I need to lie down," he muttered.

Steve turned suddenly to make his way back down the path, back to his bike. He made a point about keeping his eyes focused straight ahead of him as he sped through the maze of graves. The poor man was too scared out of his wits to look back – but he didn't expect to be followed.

"That all you came here to say?" the familiar voice spoke again. Tony – or at least the person that appeared to be Tony – was stood by a large monument of a marble-angel, his face far more serious than it had been just moments before. Steve stopped then and barely plucked up the courage to face him.

"Seems an awful long way to come just to ramble on about the suit's aesthetics."

Steve exhaled slowly, looking Tony point-blank in the eye. "You're not real and I'm not having this conversation. I just drove hundreds of miles on next to no sleep and I don't remember half of it. I'm tired and obviously hallucinating right now, so I'm gonna be rational about this. I'm gonna put," he gestured at Tony vaguely, eyes tired, "this down to sleep deprivation and hyper-vigilance, and leave – before I completely lose my wits."

Tony just grinned.

"Who says you're hallucinating?"

. . .

The two men sat on a bench beneath a tree in the graveyard. The warm glow of the fleeting sun grew weaker as the cool breeze of night slowly began to take its place. Orange burnt to red and faded to black as the sun dipped lower past the horizon, and the wind disturbed the branches of the tree, causing two lone birds to take flight. Steve, against any logic or reason he had left to muster, had chosen to stay and talk to the friendly apparition of his former teammate, deciding it was only fair to fill him in on what had happened since they lost New York. He deserved to know, whatever he was.

"You know, I think this is the longest conversation we've ever had, and I'm not even sure if you're real." Steve rubbed his face as he continued to chuckle at his own ridiculous situation. "Guess I'm finally losing my mind… Surprised it took this long, to be honest."

Tony shrugged. "Not surprising, really. But doesn't that sum up the human race? You spend a lifetime only speaking to someone when you want something from them, and being spoken to only when someone else wants what you have. There's less time for talk and more time for e mails, instant messaging, tweeting…" Tony said the final word mockingly.

"And no one ever really listens. Nope. It's only when you're pushin' up daisies that they finally want to talk for the sake of talking." Tony smiled. "And you have all the time in the world to listen then."

Steve stared at the "figment of his imagination" through a gap in his fingers.

"And you, gramps?" Tony continued, "You've been talking to a tombstone and listening to words on the wind for God knows how long." He gestured towards the soldier by his side to emphasise his point.

"Well, I didn't expect a reply," Steve said flatly. He dragged the hand down his face, leaving it limp on his lap as he continued to stare in disbelief.

"I'm insulted," said the late genius, a little sarcastically. "I always answer the calls I think are worth my attention. I mean, I took time out of my busy schedule to hear what you had to say, didn't I? And this is the thanks I get? I had a date with Marilyn Monroe, y'know." He smirked playfully.

"Who?"

"Never mind," Tony grinned, rolling his eyes. "Wow, you really are a walking piece of history aren't you? You're like one of those time capsules that people bury in their back yard so aliens can dig them up in the distant future and learn about our insignificant little lives, or something."

Steve didn't seem amused by Tony's attempt to add a little more humour to the situation and glared at him instead; more confused now than he was when the man had first appeared. Tony could see a hint of fear there too. After all, the poor guy was sat talking to a ghost, if that's what he was actually talking to. For all Steve knew he was imagining the whole thing.

Tony could have mocked him until the world stopped turning, but he didn't. The guy may have been an easy target for his jesting, and more than a little clueless when it came to popular culture, but there was a time and place for that. Tony knew that this was neither one of them.

His smile waned.

"Wanna tell me why you're really here then?"

"I think you already know why," said Steve, bowing his head.

"If this is about taking up Fury's offer, about wearing the suit, then what's stopping you? And don't give me that technophobic crap – anyone can pilot it. It's like riding a bike, only without the wheels. And instead of pedals you got a miniaturised ARC reactor, and ion cyclotron resonance frequency booster antennas."

Steve's brow furrowed. "How the hell is any of what you just said supposed to convince me?"

"It's not. I can't convince you to wear it, Cap. Neither can Fury." Tony pointed a finger at the slumped soldier by his side. "The only one who can convince you is you."

And just like that, both the problem and its solution knocked Steve out of his emotional rut like a convenient Haymaker to the face. He knew then what had truly been holding him back. It wasn't S.H.I.E.L.D, or the mechanics of the suit, or waiting for Tony's approval. Of course all of these factors had stopped him from leading the cavalry like he had in times long since past. But that was only because he had let them hold him back.

No one else doubted him but himself.

He lifted his head to say something to the auspicious apparition, but the distant sounds of civil unrest in the city grabbed his attention. When he turned again, Tony was gone.

. . .

"Glad you decided to take my offer," said Fury, who had been standing by the waiting aircraft like he was expecting the soldier to show up eventually. Steve stepped forward, bag in one hand and his shield in the other, acknowledging the glares of his men by the camp as he did so. They knew he was leaving, and accepted that fact. But they didn't have to like it.

"I've agreed to see what you're so certain will end the war. I haven't decided anything yet," Steve said dryly, passing the director without so much as a second glance as he boarded the jet.

"Commander!" Peter called from his seat, a mixture of surprise and glee to see him there. Actually, it was Steve who was more surprised to see Peter.

"What are you doing here Peter?" he asked directly.

The young man opened his mouth to answer but Fury stepped in.

"– Young Parker here has expressed his wish to help with the project. He's quite the eager individual. Wouldn't take no for an answer so - thought I'd give him a shot. That a problem, soldier?"

"Depends on your definition of the word problem," said Steve, eyes still fixed on Peter. He really didn't like the idea of him falling into S.H.I.E.L.D's hands, especially being so young. But the simmering determination in the boy's eyes was a quality Steve valued highly, and he'd grown rather fond of him. He couldn't abandon his friend now, could he?

"Sir, I just want to help …" the young man began, "…and I think I'll be a lot more useful working with S.H.I.E.L.D than I would fixing-up old junk back at camp. I'm not exactly popular with the group; the whole atmosphere is like senior high all over again. I think they blame me for you leaving, and right now the thought of spending a night surrounded by trained killers with a grudge doesn't sound very appealing."

He cracked a brief but nervous smile before pursing his lips and straightening his posture.

"Please – just give me a chance. I won't let you down, I swear."

Steve sighed and gave in to his friend's pleading. "I know you won't," he said, patting Peter on the shoulder as he moved to place his things in an overhead carrier above his seat.

The team took their seats in the aircraft – a design similar to the Quinjet – and it departed soon after towards its destination, somewhere eastbound.
Steve took the journey as a good opportunity to ask Fury some questions that were long overdue.

"So where is it we're headed? Thought you were runnin' low on bases," he asked the director sat in the seat opposite.

"We're not short on lodging Commander, I assure you," Fury answered coolly. "There are 28 covert bases scattered across the globe – back-up bases, created for emergencies such as these. Although I don't think anyone could've imagined the situation we're in right now."

"Aren't you worried that Loki will find them? You said they're secret, but so were all the others he snuffed out."

"He'll have to play a good game of Battleships to find all of them. I'm the only one who knows the exact location of all 28."

That was certainly news to both Steve and Peter, whose eyebrows shot up in unison.

"If Loki wants those bases he'll need me. As far as he's aware, I'm out of the picture," the director continued. "And to answer your first question; it's a base on the East Coast – an island, near Bronx -"

"–New York?" Steve added with surprise. Fury nodded.

"Everything 15 miles from lower Manhattan is abandoned, for the most part. This island is one of the 28."

Steve fell silent, and Peter noticed his sudden withdrawal from the conversation, no doubt based on the surprising reveal of where they were headed. He tried to help by changing the conversation.

"I heard Dr Banner worked for you," Peter began. "I read about him and his work. Will he be onboard the project too, in some away?"

"I'm afraid not," Fury replied solemnly. "Our last encounter with Dr Banner was with his alter ego, about 6 months ago just north of the Canadian border. According to intel he was captured by Loki soon after, and hasn't been sighted since."

Peter frowned. Steve too was quite unsettled, but more at the idea of Loki possibly gaining control of the Hulk than of Banner's absence in S.H.I.E.L.D's labs.

Several thousand miles and a hefty dose of jetlag later, the aircraft landed on a secluded island east of Bronx, New York. The buildings there looked old and derelict – hardly the image of a sophisticated covert law-enforcement agency – surrounded by overgrown foliage and trees that offered them convenient camouflage. At the landing site was agent Coulson, and Steve was openly relieved and happy to see him again, making sure to ask if Pepper was safe and feeling reassured to know that she was perfectly fine and on the island too.
Coulson escorted the men into one of the old buildings and through a set of doors before entering what appeared to be an elevator. They then descended 200ft to where the real base of operations was located.

"Here it is, Commander," Fury announced proudly as the doors slid open. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D's weapons development headquarters."

The underground warehouse was very impressive. There were aircraft of varying sizes, men and women busy tending to complicated-looking machinery, even testing some of it. And the place itself was huge – similar in size and appearance to a military hangar. Steve noted that the ceiling must have reached a little over 190 ft from the ground.

"I believe you've already met Lt Col James Rhodes. He's in charge of all Stark tech."

Rhodey stepped forward and shook Steve's hand firmly.

"Good to see you again, Captain Rogers."

"And you," said Steve, "but it's Commander now. I don't don the uniform these days."

"Sorry to hear that, because we have something I think you'll find rather impressive."

The Lt Col directed the group towards a section of the warehouse that had been sectioned-off. In the centre of the space, surrounded by computers, there stood an empty platform. But just behind it, supported by large mechanical arms, was a familiar sight.

"The Iron Patriot – or IP 1 unit for short," Rhodey announced.

Rhodey was right – Steve was certainly impressed. The armour was everything he had remembered seeing in Tony's workshop, and more. But instead of the familiar colours it was decorated in striking red and blue over polished silver. More than that, the resemblance to his old stars and stripes uniform was uncanny, the pale blue light of its ARC reactor radiating through a star-shaped protector on its chest-plate.

"It was originally the Mark IV, but we gave it a few tweaks and upgraded its munitions. What you see here is the most advance weapons system we have."

"This. Is. So. Awesome!" Peter gawked, moving ahead of the group to take a closer look. "So this is what you were busy doing…"

"We managed to relocate JARVIS to access a number of Tony's blueprints and schematics, but the majority of them are encrypted. There's a lot more we can do to improve the IP 1, to make it more advanced. But without Tony… it's taking a lot longer to get things up to speed, and time isn't something we have a great deal of."

Peter had stopped ogling the armour and found the contents of a neighbouring computer alluring. True to Rhodey's word there were many files – hundreds in fact – that were encrypted and unreadable, and many blueprints for new weapons and designs for the suit that looked incredibly complicated. But Peter was intrigued.

"What's this?" the young man asked, directing Rhodey to plans of some kind displayed on the screen.

Rhodey cracked a smile then. "I think it's time for a demonstration."

The floor beneath the suit opened up, lowering the large mechanical arms and the suit into a secret compartment. Instantly, a number of engineers and programmers returned to their stations, seemingly well-rehearsed in whatever was happening.

"Commander Rogers, would you mind stepping onto the platform?" Rhodey instructed.

Steve blinked, still a little overwhelmed by the situation, but he silently and cautiously obliged. He walked into the centre of the circular stage and turned to face an audience that was gradually expanding, eager to see what was about to happen. They didn't have to wait long, because moments later the floor around his feet slid away and several mechanical arms appeared, each holding a piece of the armour. Steve stayed perfectly still, following Rhodey's instructions carefully until he was almost completely dressed in the shiny IP 1 with only his faceplate to be lowered. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch in complete awe.

"How do you like the new suit now?" Fury called, smiling.

When the mechanical arms recoiled into their secret compartment beneath the floor, Steve moved his arms and flexed his fingers, adjusting to his new outfit. He had to admit, it was pretty damn cool.

"Feels a little stiff… You mind telling me what this thing can do?"

"I have something better in mind," said Rhodey, "I thought we'd take it for a test drive."

"Are you serious?" Steve gaped. "I just got the hang of a cellular phone and you're suggesting I move around in this – now?"

Rhodey smiled as he walked over to another set of mechanical arms that dressed him in his own suit of armour.

"Don't worry Commander. It's just like riding a bike."