Chapter 1
Noah Bishop’s first thought was that he was dead.
He was certain of it. The last thing he remembered was the sharp crack of gunfire, the burning pain in his chest, and the cold mud of the battlefield seeping into his uniform. His helmet had been knocked loose, his rifle lost somewhere in the chaos. He had fallen, the world slipping away in a haze of blood and smoke. That was it. That was supposed to be it.
And yet—he woke up.
Not in a trench. Not in a hospital. Not even in a coffin. But in his own bed.
At least, it looked like his bed. His house. The small Brooklyn apartment he had shared with his mother, the one he had left behind when he enlisted. But something was wrong. The sheets felt too clean, the air too sterile. Slowly, he sat up. His fingers brushed over the fabric of his jacket, still buttoned, the familiar patches rough beneath his touch. The dirt from the battlefield should’ve still been there, the scent of gunpowder clinging to it—but there was nothing. It felt wrong . Too clean. Too whole.
His boots were by the door, as if he took them off before laying down.
Noah swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body oddly light, as if it wasn’t entirely his. The wood floor was cool beneath his feet. He hesitated before standing, letting himself adjust to the strange stillness of the room. Everything was familiar—and yet, it wasn’t.
His fingers traced the edge of the nightstand, the same one that had been there since he was a boy, worn at the corners from years of absentminded drumming. His mother used to scold him for that. He turned, his eyes scanning the walls, the shelves, the pieces of a life that should have been long gone.
He moved towards the window, the room feeling smaller, suffocating. He needed air. He needed to see something real.
The moment he pulled back the curtain, his stomach dropped.
The world outside was wrong.
Gone were the cobblestone roads, the familiar old shops, newsboys yelling headlines from the street corners, the sounds of Brooklyn. The cars—sleek, small, moving with a smoothness that shouldn’t have been possible. The people and the buildings— This wasn’t his world.
Panic clawed at his throat. He turned back inside, gripping the edge of the window sill. He needed answers. Something, anything to explain this nightmare. His eyes landed on a small stack of newspapers sitting on the table. With shaking hands, he picked one up randomly. His pulse pounded in his ears as he skimmed the front page.
“Captain America Returns: Steve Rogers Leads the Avengers.”
Below that, another headline read:
“The Winter Soldier Identified as James Buchanan Barnes.”
Noah’s hands shook. Bucky. Steve. Alive? That wasn’t possible. He had grieved Bucky, after his fall off the train. And Steve—Steve had gone into the ice. Hadn’t he?
His breathing came fast and shallow. His hands clenched around the edges of the newspaper as if the paper itself could anchor him.
He looked around again, this time with new eyes. This wasn’t his home. It was a recreation, a carefully constructed illusion. A ghost of a life that had been stolen from him.
But if Bucky and Steve were here—if they had somehow survived, somehow come back—then maybe the war hadn’t ended for him, either. Maybe his fight wasn’t over.
He exhaled sharply and set the newspaper down. His decision was already made.
He needed to see them.
Now.
--
Noah didn’t know how long he had been walking.
Everything was too much. Too loud. Too fast.
The world around him moved at a pace he couldn’t keep up with—machines rushing by in a blur, voices overlapping in unfamiliar rhythms, lights flashing too bright. The sheer noise of it all pressed against his skull, a constant hum of activity that made it hard to think.
And people were staring.
Some just glanced and moved on, but others lingered, their eyes trailing over his uniform, their expressions ranging from confusion to quiet curiosity. A few muttered to each other, and some even lifted small, glowing devices, holding them up like they were aiming at him.
Noah felt it—the weight of their attention, the way it crawled under his skin—but he didn’t understand why .
He forced himself to ignore it.
Every unfamiliar sound, every unrecognizable face, every reminder that this was not his world—it all clawed at the edges of his mind, but he shoved it down.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
Steve. Bucky.
He latched onto that thought and kept moving.
And then—he found it.
Avengers Tower.
It looked nothing like what he expected. A towering monolith of glass and metal, gleaming in the city lights. Not a military base, not a government building, not anything he could recognize.
His pulse hammered in his throat. His breath was too fast, his fingers twitching at his sides. The urge to turn around, to get away from this unfamiliar place, was almost overwhelming.
But he had come this far.
Noah swallowed hard, squared his shoulders, and forced himself to move forward.
The receptionist barely spared him a glance. “Can I help you?”
“I—I need to get a message to Steve Rogers and James Barnes,” Noah said, his voice hoarse.
The receptionist sighed. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“A phone number we can contact you with?”
He didn’t have a phone. He barely understood what a phone was now. He shook his head. “I don’t—I don’t got one of those.”
She sighed, exasperated. “Sir, they don’t take random messages. You’ll have to—”
“I’ll wait,” Noah cut in. “Ain’t lookin’ to cause trouble.”
The receptionist frowned and exchanged glances with a nearby security guard. “Who did you say you were again?”
“Noah Bishop.”
The receptionist then nodded, so Noah stepped aside, ignoring the curious glances of passing civilians. He sat down near the windows, hands clasped tightly, trying to steady his breathing.
--
The common room of the Avengers Tower was unusually quiet that evening. Steve and Bucky sat across from each other at the long table, a chess board between them. Sam was leaning against the couch, flipping through his phone, while Natasha sipped at her tea while reading a book. Clint had his feet kicked up on the coffee table, flipping a knife between his fingers, and Tony—well, Tony was being Tony, tinkering with some device at the bar.
The quiet didn’t last long.
"Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes," FRIDAY’s voice rang out through the room, smooth and precise. "There is a message for you."
Steve blinked, glancing up from the board. “A message? What kind of message?”
"A name."
Bucky frowned. “A name?”
A pause. Then FRIDAY spoke again.
"Noah Bishop."
The effect was immediate. Steve stiffened, his breath catching in his throat. Across the table, Bucky’s hands clenched into fists. The chessboard between them was all but forgotten as they slowly turned to look at each other.
“That’s…” Steve trailed off.
Bucky shook his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s impossible.”
Tony, who had looked thoroughly disinterested until now, straightened up, setting his tools aside. “Alright, I don’t like that reaction. Who’s Noah Bishop?”
Steve exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before answering. “A friend. From the war.” His voice was tight, the weight of old memories pressing down on him. “After—after I went into the ice, and after Bucky…” His eyes flickered to his friend, who had gone rigid. “Noah disappeared.”
“We looked for him,” Bucky muttered, his jaw clenched. “But all the files ever said was MIA. No records, no follow-ups—just gone. Not even a damn footnote in history.”
Clint, who had been listening quietly up until now, furrowed his brows. “Hold on. You’re saying someone from the 1940s —as in, World War II forties—is sending a message to you right now ?” He gave a pointed look. “Is there another Winter Soldier thing happening? Or a secret super-soldier program we don’t know about?”
Steve shook his head. “We don’t know yet.” Then, turning his attention back to the AI, he asked, “FRIDAY, where is he?”
"He is waiting in the lobby. He requested only to deliver a message to you and Sergeant Barnes."
Tony let out a low whistle. “Old-school. No phone, no appointment. Just shows up at the Tower and asks for the two of you? Either this guy is the real deal or he’s got some serious guts.”
Steve ignored him. “Can you send him up?”
"Of course."
A silent tension filled the air as they waited.
--
Noah sat stiffly in the Tower lobby, fingers gripping the fabric of his coat. Two hours. He had been waiting for two hours, and still—nothing.
Everything around him was wrong .
The walls gleamed unnaturally, smooth and cold, made of glass and metal in ways that didn’t seem possible. The ceiling stretched higher than any building should, yet the space still felt open, like it wasn’t built for people like him. The floor beneath him wasn’t wood or stone but something polished and artificial, reflecting the too-bright lights overhead.
People moved past him with effortless confidence, speaking into glowing devices. He could hear what they were saying —their words clipped, laced with unfamiliar slang. The screens they held shifted with images and symbols he couldn’t decipher. And their clothes—too fitted, too sharp, with materials he had never seen before—felt like something out of a dream. Or a nightmare.
Even the air smelled off . Cleaner, yes, but wrong. There was no wood smoke, no scent of earth after rain, no familiar traces of life. Just a metallic sterility, something synthetic that he couldn’t place.
His grip on his coat tightened. What am I doing here?
A movement caught his eye.
A security guard was approaching, face impassive. “Come with me.”
Noah hesitated, then nodded. He rose to his feet, his limbs stiff from sitting too long, and followed.
They stepped into a small, enclosed metal room. The doors slid shut behind them without a sound.
Noah frowned. No handles. No windows. His pulse picked up.
“…What is this?” he asked, voice low.
The guard blinked. “The elevator?”
Noah’s brows pulled together but said nothing.
A soft chime sounded, and the doors slid open.
Noah stepped out—and felt his breath catch.
Because there, standing right in front of him, were Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.