This story is basically a scene filler for the end of CA:FA. I just expanded on the ending scene and added in a flashback. It's Steve's perspective on the new world that he's now in, and what happened when the plane went down.

For this story, I did something different and tried to focus more on descriptions instead of names, exact places, and things. Maybe this style works and maybe it doesn't, but I wanted to try something a little different. If you think that I failed/did decently/did well, letting me know with a review would be amazing. Anyways, thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel or any of its characters. Duh.

There was something not quite right about the window. It was too perfect, too clear, let too much light through. The buildings outside looked real enough, the first time he looked. But upon a second viewing, where he really looked at them, they seemed flat. They were not full of life. And the colors were all wrong. They were too bright. There was no smoke rising through the air from factories. No smog from cars, no shouting boys trying to sell newspapers. As a matter of fact, he heard no people at all

It all simply felt fake. Even the air was off somehow. And then there was the radio. Blaring a baseball game that seemed all too familiar to him. As if he had been there…but that wasn't possible. Right? The radio didn't just replay games, especially ones that he had been to a while ago. A long while. Before his life drastically changed.

The game that he had gone to with with his best friend, his brother, before the Army. Before saving the world became his day job. A normal game, with baseball and popcorn, the first one that he had ever been to.

He found himself staring out the window again, at the seemingly fake world. The seemingly fake game that replayed what he had seen. Even the room was off. The hospital mattress beneath him was too soft, and the blanket didn't seem to scratch his skin. Everything was…off in some way or another.

Then the nurse came in. The first thing that he noticed was her hair. The long, dark brown locks cascaded over her shoulders. A nurse, or any woman serving for the Army, would have had their hair up, pulled back, or shorter. Her lipstick was too dark, and her tie was too small and thin. It ran down the length of her uniform, which was also wrong. Even her smile seemed forced and fake, hiding fear and secrets.

Everything about the situation screamed run. Run as fast and as far away as you can and never look back at this strange, twisted world. The one that tried to be like his, and had ended up failing.

The last thing that he remembered had been the crash. The horrible crunch and bending of the metal against the ice. The frigid, bone-numbing cold that had followed. He had set down his shield at the foot of the pilot's chair and stood up. Water began flooding into the ship as it creaked and started disappearing into the sea below.

There was no hope, and he knew that. The communications system was down, navigation was down, and the only exit to the ship was already flooded. He stood in the middle of a sinking plane with his hands on his head for a grand total of thirty-four seconds. That was how long it took for him to realize that it was pointless. That was how long it took for his mind to be made up. That was how long it took for him to repeat in his head that he saved the world, and that he could die for that cause.

By the time he lay down on the floor of the plane, water was up to his knees. It bit into his suit like a thousand knives, threatening to tear him apart. He stared up at the ceiling of the plane for a moment before closing his eyes. To his right was the hole in the floor that the tesseract had left, a hole that let more water flood in.

Panic rose slightly in his throat as the water enveloped his chest, leaving only his face above it. He clenched the compass in his hand and took a deep breath, willing the pain and the fear away. He would see his friend again, the one that had fallen from a train in a frozen wasteland only mere hours ago. Everyone else would be safe. Hopefully the war would end, and he would have done his part in it. Three more minutes passed and he was completely covered by water. The plane was completely submerged; he could feel it in the way it had stopped sinking.

He didn't think about the cold as it covered his face. He didn't think about the pain in his lungs as he struggled to hold his breath and not go up for air that he knew would be long gone. He didn't think about never seeing his friends again and leaving them behind to fight the war by themselves. They had managed before him, and they would manage after him too.

So he thought about the world that he was leaving behind, and hopefully the better one that would follow. The one that he helped save and the one that his friends would save time and time again. That was what he was thinking about as his lungs expended the rest of his air and he drifted away.

That had been his last memory before warmth seeped into his frozen form and he had opened his eyes to the strange room.

The woman talked to him, and he replied weakly back. He was standing now. How did he get standing in the first place? He watched as panic overtook her face and her fingers slid against each other, pressing a button of sorts. In a few seconds, armored men came into the room.

That was when he knew for a fact that whatever world these people had tried to put on was not real. Where was he?

In the fight that followed, he flung one man through the wall, which also happened to be fake. As he looked back at the structure that they had tried to contain him in, that was all it was. A fake hospital room, with a fake view, presenting a fake world. He felt sick as he ran through wherever he was, turning down so many corridors that he finally lost count. Men in suits and black uniforms swamped him as he tried to get away.

When he got to the outside, he was convinced that it was yet another fake world. Towering buildings, all full of color. Noises and music that filled where he stood. Bustling people and vehicles that moved with an intent purpose in mind. Giant, lit up boards with constantly moving pictures. Everything seemed to be moving so fast. This world could not be real. It was completely different than the one he had left.

Eventually a man broke through the wall of other armored men and tried to calm him down. Tried to tell him that he had been asleep for nearly seventy years. Tried to ask him if he would be okay. Tried to put emotion into his voice so that he didn't seem like a cold, calculating man that had made the first fake world and had probably made this one too.

In the end, he went with the man. The man that had dark skin, an even darker coat, and an even darker eyepatch. His voice commanded attention and respect. They walked down a few of the streets and the man pointed out a few things. A few vaguely familiar landmarks, but nothing that explicitly told him that this was, in fact, his new reality.

However, the more he toured this new world, the more it seemed to be real. The more the people looked at him with a confused awe. Children would point him out and say his name. All the while, the man moved with an purpose. They ended up in a large building with glass for walls that looked out over the new world.

The one that he had apparently missed while he had been "asleep". He looked out over it. The bustling city that he had once called home, the towering buildings that now stood where there had been quiet suburbs. Parks where there had been factories. Houses where there had been a recruitment center. What had this building replaced?

It was all too new, too fluid, too big, too shiny. He missed the dirt and grit and realness of his city. This one just seemed engineered and fake.

The man passed him a folder and instructed someone to drive him to another facility. He even slipped the compass into the folder and handed it to him. Even the car was new and shiny and strange. It was all black, with black leather, and blacked out windows. He went into this car without question, still reeling at everything that had been put on his plate. He refused to stare at the file in his hands.

The driver dropped him off and gave him a key and showed him to his room. "Temporary living quarters" until he was more adjusted, was what the man had said before leaving.

Now he was standing in a strange room that a strange man had directed him to, with a strange bed, strange windows overlooking a strange city, a strange shirt on his body, and a terrifying file in his hands. He sat on the bed, which was again too soft and conformed to his body too much. When the bed seemed too strange too, he pulled up the chair and sat at a desk. At least the desk seemed somewhat normal.

Wooden, four legs, slightly scratched. He was surprised that it wasn't black or made out of glass. He stared at the wall for a few seconds, which was a grayish green color. He took out the file, running the thick paper between his fingers. He opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper, forcing himself to read the name. A familiar name that he had known for years. A name that he had fought beside. A name that now had red ink saying "deceased" over it. He placed the paper down and picked up the next one. Another paper, another familiar name, another "deceased" stamp. He willed the sorrowful lump out of his throat and picked up the next paper in the stack. Yet another paper with a name that he respected, a name that carried a "killed in action" stamp.

The red letters mocked him. His teammates, all of their names crossed out with a harsh red stamp. All of his teammates, his brothers in arms, supposedly dead and gone from this strange world. A world that he struggled to believe was actually real.

The man with the bowler hat, the mustache, and the intoxicating ability to make everyone else believe that they could save the world. The Frenchman with a huge, courageous heart. The smart Brit, and bilingual with the normal last name.

Maybe HYDRA had him and this was a masterful scheme to make him do whatever they wanted. It didn't seem entirely impossible. Take away everything that he had once known; his city, his life, his friends, his family. Maybe it was all a giant, grand charade. Maybe this was not reality and he was still unconscious. Maybe he was dead. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But that was until he saw her name. The name of the woman that had meant so much to him for such a short period of time. A period of time that he had prayed would have been longer. A woman that had been the last voice he had heard before the crunch of the plane. A name that did not have a red stamp over it. There was no harsh lettering stating how she had died. The sleek black lettering of her name that was not interrupted by a cold, red block of truth.

There was only an address, off to the side of the paper underneath her picture. An address that was labeled "current residence". A slight sliver of hope rose in his chest, making him smile. Even her picture looked like it could take on the world, and no one could tell her that she couldn't.

He pulled out the compass that still had her photo stuck in it. While slightly water-damaged, it was still her. He held it up next to the file folder and smiled. He now had two pictures of her to carry around with him.

He placed the file back on the table. The one file with no red on it but the lipstick in her photo. A photo of her that looked slightly aged, but was still her. Brown curls, slight red-lipped smirk, bright eyes that looked so alive.

Maybe there was still some hope in this strange new world. Maybe there was still something of his past in this changed universe. Maybe there was someone who would understand him and help him.

If this truly was a strange and fake world, then why was there still a person in it that was real? One that was not strange. One that he knew like the back of his very own hand. One that he trusted with his life, whatever that was at the moment.

One, singular, normal thing in a strange new world. One ray of hope. One connection to where he had come from. One person to reconnect with.

He could live with that.