Chapter 9: Back to 1970, I Found Captain America's Grave
Standing on the quantum tunnel platform, Rory looked at Captain America with studied calm. The weight of what was happening—being exiled to a time that wasn't his own—pressed down on him like a physical force.
Steve Rogers stood across from him, the Infinity Stones secured in their containment case, Mjolnir resting easily in his grip despite its impossible weight. He nodded to Bruce Banner at the control console.
"Bruce, send us back."
The countdown echoed through the chamber. When it reached zero, Banner activated the quantum realm gateway.
The world dissolved into swirling blue energy, reality bending and folding around them like origami made of light and time.
When Rory's vision cleared, they were standing in the same abandoned Lehigh facility where this had all begun—a decrepit military warehouse on the outskirts of Wheaton, New Jersey, 1970.
Steve no longer carried Mjolnir. The hammer, along with most of the Infinity Stones, had already been returned to their proper places in the timeline. Only one stone remained in the case—the final piece that would complete Steve's mission.
"I hope you can make a good life for yourself here," Steve said, removing the quantum GPS device from Rory's wrist. "I'll... I'll check on you when I can."
"Oh?" Rory raised an eyebrow, still clutching his hard drive of research data. "You're not going back to 2023?"
Steve's expression softened, a hint of the young man from Brooklyn showing through the decades of warfare and loss. "I want to try something Tony once told me about—having a life."
"Ah." Rory's laugh was bitter. "So the great Captain America isn't just a mindless patriot after all. Turns out even you have selfish desires."
Steve opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't sound hypocritical. He was sending Rory back to a time that wasn't his own while choosing to stay in 1970 himself.
"I won't pretend this is fair," Steve said quietly.
"No, you won't," Rory agreed, turning to walk away. He paused at the warehouse entrance and looked back. "You don't need to explain what kind of life you want to live, Steve. But I really hope we never see each other again. Ever."
The lie about not being angry tasted bitter on his tongue, but what choice did he have? In front of superheroes, he was as helpless as a child.
Steve watched him go, the weight of his decision settling on his shoulders like a familiar burden.
While Steve Rogers was busy returning the final Infinity Stone and reuniting with the love of his life, Rory was already making his way to New York City. Not out of any sentimental attachment, but because it offered the resources and anonymity he needed for his work.
The first priority was funding. Using his knowledge of future technological developments, Rory crafted a proposal that would be irresistible to forward-thinking investors. The company that bit was, ironically, Stark Industries.
He never met Howard Stark directly—the man was too busy with his own projects and S.H.I.E.L.D. commitments. Instead, Rory dealt with the corporation's strategic investment division, a group of sharp-minded analysts who recognized potential when they saw it.
The funding wasn't massive, but it was enough to establish a proper laboratory and begin his real work.
"Mr. Rory," said the Stark Industries representative, a thin man in an expensive suit, "this money comes with expectations. Mr. Hansen, our investment manager, wants to see tangible results within three months, or we reclaim the facility."
"Understood," Rory nodded. "I'll forward progress reports to Stark Industries monthly. Please don't interfere with the actual research."
Three months? Rory almost smiled. In 1970, even modest improvements in computing or materials science would seem revolutionary. He wouldn't need three months—three weeks would be more than sufficient to produce something that would keep Stark Industries happy and his funding secure.
"Oh Steve, I can't believe you're really back. Tell me I'm not dreaming!"
Peggy Carter's hands trembled as she touched Steve's face, her fingers tracing the familiar lines that time had somehow left unchanged. The decades of longing and regret seemed to melt away in that single moment of contact.
"How could I abandon the woman I love?" Steve whispered, his own hand covering hers. "I still owe you that dance."
The touch was warm, real, familiar. A love that had transcended time itself filled the space between them, making the world seem brighter, more alive.
More than two weeks passed in blissful domesticity before Steve's conscience finally caught up with him.
"Peggy, I need to take care of something," he said one morning, watching her get ready for another day at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. "It might take a few days."
Peggy paused in applying her lipstick, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Anything I can help with?"
"Actually, yes. It would make things much easier if you were willing to assist. I need to find someone—a man named Rory. He's... complicated."
"Of course." Peggy turned and kissed him softly. "Whatever you need."
Since its founding after the war, S.H.I.E.L.D. had been building an impressive intelligence network. Finding one person, even with limited information, was well within their capabilities.
Within hours, Peggy had a file on Rory's activities. Much of the biographical information was obviously fabricated, but his partnership with Stark Industries was legitimate and traceable.
Steve felt his stomach drop as he read the report. "He's working with Stark Industries?"
"Is that a problem?" Peggy asked, noting his expression.
Steve was quiet for a long moment, remembering Rory's warnings about the dangers of unchecked technological development. "I really hope my concerns are unfounded."
Understanding the urgency in Steve's voice, Peggy immediately drove them to the laboratory address listed in the file.
The door was unlocked, which should have been their first warning.
Inside, they found an empty room. Not just empty—completely barren. No equipment, no research materials, not even furniture. Just bare walls and concrete floors.
"He never intended to stay here," Steve realized. "This was just a mailing address for the Stark Industries paperwork."
While Steve and Peggy were discovering the abandoned laboratory, Rory was several hundred miles north, standing on the deck of a research vessel cutting through the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.
"Sir, are you certain about these coordinates?" the ship's captain asked, joining Rory at the rail. "We're heading into some of the most inhospitable waters in the Atlantic. Most folks avoid this area entirely."
Rory nodded confidently, though inside he felt less certain than he appeared. "Scientific expeditions require going where others fear to tread, Captain. The greatest discoveries are often found in the most unlikely places."
He'd memorized the search grid from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files during his time at the Avengers compound—the same coordinates they'd used decades later to locate and retrieve the frozen Steve Rogers. The terrain would have shifted over the years, ice moving and reforming, but the basic location should still be accurate.
Should be. Had to be.
After three days of careful navigation through increasingly dangerous ice fields, the research vessel finally reached the coordinates Rory had specified.
"This is as far as we go," the captain announced. "Ice is too thick and unpredictable beyond this point. You'll have to continue on foot."
Rory nodded, having expected this limitation. With the crew's help, he unloaded a snowmobile, camping equipment, and enough supplies for a week-long expedition. The men looked at him like he was insane—and maybe he was.
"You sure about this, doc?" one of the crew members asked. "Weather reports show a storm system moving in. You get caught out there..."
"I'll be fine," Rory assured him, though the confidence was mostly for show. "Pick me up at these coordinates in exactly one week. If I'm not here, wait another day, then head back to port."
The snowmobile's engine roared to life, drowning out any further objections from the crew. Rory gave them a wave and set off across the ice, following the GPS coordinates that he hoped would lead him to the greatest discovery of the 20th century.
For two days and nights, he battled howling winds and subzero temperatures, the snowmobile struggling through deep drifts and across treacherous ice fields. His lips cracked and bled from the cold, his exposed skin burned by the wind, and dark circles formed under his eyes from exhaustion and the constant strain of navigating by instruments alone.
But the thought of what lay beneath the ice—a perfect specimen of super-soldier enhanced genetics, preserved in a natural deep freeze—kept him going when common sense would have demanded he turn back.
Just when his supplies were running dangerously low and hypothermia was becoming a real threat, his metal detector finally gave him the signal he'd been hoping for.
Beep... beep... beep...
The steady pulse meant dense metallic objects below the ice. Lots of them.
Rory pulled out his ice pick and began the backbreaking work of digging through layers of accumulated ice and snow. Each strike sent shock waves through his already exhausted arms, but he couldn't stop now.
CLANG!
The pick struck something solid and metallic—not ice, but engineered steel.
"Well, hello there, Steve," Rory whispered, his breath forming clouds in the arctic air. "Fancy meeting you here."
End of Chapter 9
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