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We’re going to the future, Bucky Barnes says, and he hands Steve 
Rogers a copy of today’s paper, presses him close against his side,
and they dream about warless times and flying cars.

Seventy years of sleep later, Steve Rogers lies on the glass of a 
dying helicarrier, gazes up at angry yet fearful eyes, touches the 
fist scrunched against his chest.

If this is the future, let’s stay in the past. [x] 
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