Steve Rogers leads a team to explore a seemingly abandoned vessel. Steve's POV.

The Most Good

When the ship comes tearing through the atmosphere, it sets off all sorts of whistles and bells. The United States military tries hailing it. But there is no response. There is only static.

What is strange is that it does not plummet to the ground, as one might expect. It simply hovers there, in the air…a few miles above Earth's surface.

It seems prudent to investigate, they decide. They. They who allowed themselves to be infiltrated by HYDRA. They who only acknowledge you when they want something from you. They who called you a criminal until they were desperate for your help. And you oblige, of course. Because it could be dangerous. And if it is, you want to be there. You want to be where you can do the most good. That's all you've ever really wanted. Isn't it?

You lead a team of five. But you are the first to enter the vessel. The mechanism that operates the door is no longer functioning. In order to gain entry, you must force it open with all of your strength.

You pause, as you take in the sight before you. All around you, broken machinery hisses and crackles, some emitting a continuous shower of sparks. There is an overpowering scent that you cannot place. It is vaguely familiar, reminiscent of burning plastic perhaps...with a hint of something else. And there are so many bodies. There are bodies piled upon bodies…men and women, children and infants. There are so many bodies that there is practically no room for you to walk. Out of respect, you try your best to step over them. Though you find that it is almost impossible to do so.

You know what combat looks like. You've seen enough of it in your lifetime. You've seen soldiers fallen in the field of battle, friend and enemy alike. But whatever this was, it was no contest, no struggle of wills between opponents. This was an ambush, a slaughter…a massacre of innocents.

You carefully make your way through one corridor after another, searching diligently for survivors. There are some. But they are few in number, and most are so severely wounded that you doubt that they will live long enough to receive proper medical attention. You feel sick from it...the knowledge that someone could place so little value on life, that they could snuff it out so thoughtlessly. You struggle to shove your emotions aside, however, as you've learned that they can only be a liability at a time such as this.

You round another corner and another and another. It's more and more of the same...an endless display of death and rubble.

And that's when you see him.

He's propped up against the wall, his arms wrapped tightly around a small child. He is staring into space, his lids half closed. His cheeks and hands are peppered with tiny cuts. He seems unaware of the carnage around him.

You approach him, cautiously, and kneel down before him. It has only been eight years. But he is much different than you remember...older, battle weary. His hair is longer, and his features no longer distended with madness.

While he senses your presence, he does not look directly at you. Your appearance has changed drastically, since your last encounter. Your own hair is longer, as well. You are now sporting a thick beard, and clad entirely in black...no longer donning that brightly colored costume. Although you suspect that his failure to recognize you is rooted in something else altogether.

"I'm alright," Loki offers, softly. Even though it is obvious that he is not.

His breathing is labored and shallow. And now that you are closer, you notice that a piece of metal…a narrow beam of some sort…has impaled him. A short length of it is protruding from his abdomen. The blood around the point of entry is mostly dried. Though some continues to seep through, around the edges. His clothing is soaked with blood. His own, you assume...although you cannot fathom how he has survived so long with such a profound loss of fluid. You have no idea how long he has been sitting like this. Perhaps hours, or maybe even days.

He slowly loosens his grip on the child.

"You'll help him?" Loki asks, blankly. He does not look at you, but through you.

"You must help him," he adds. "He is the only son of Volstagg, The Valiant."

You reach for the boy. His body is cold. You have no doubt that he has been deceased for quite some time. You wonder where Thor is, and why he is not here. You wonder who these people are, and why they were en route to Earth to begin with. Mostly, you wonder who or what it was that prevented them from reaching their destination alive. You have a thousand questions. Though you know this is not the time to ask them.

"Yeah, of course," you say, instead.

You take the child from his arms. You hold the boy gently, even though you know he is dead...and even though there are easily a hundred more dead children, just meters away.

One of the others catches up to you. He's young...he couldn't possibly be more than twenty years old. When he comes to stand beside you, he is so close that you can feel the toe of his boot pressing into your leg.

"Is that..." he begins.

You don't allow him to finish.

"This man needs immediate medical attention," you interrupt, sharply.

Loki folds his hands and brings them to rest them in his lap. His fingers are interlocked so gracefully. He is trying to keep his head up, his chin perpendicular to the ground. There's something disturbing about it...his instinct to appear well postured, even as he slowly bleeds to death. You recognize such behavior as the product of training. Not military training, perhaps. But training all the same.

"Sir?" the young soldier pries, with uncertainty.

You lock eyes, for a long moment. Then he nods and departs to find the others.

"We're going to get you out of here," you tell Loki. "Do you understand?"

Loki blinks a few times, his eyes still vacant. He glances down at the boy in your arms.

He does not address your statement. He only repeats himself, numbly.

"You must help him."