When one's consciousness sinks into the realm of dreams, it's often difficult to determine exactly when the transition occurred. Steve was no exception. As the gentle pitter-patter of rain gradually ceased, he opened his eyes to find himself in a vaguely familiar place.
Squinting against the light and using his hand as a shield, Steve stood up and surveyed his surroundings. It appeared to be an aged laboratory, even though Steve wasn't a scientific researcher himself. He could discern that this laboratory wasn't a creation of the 21st century. While the equipnt here might seem advanced from a perspective of the past century, it couldn't conceal the slightly cramped layout and the marks of wear on the lab table's surface.
Suddenly, Steve's attention was caught by sothing he recognized—a lab table. What made it familiar was a dent on one of the cabinet doors, a dent he had personally repaired.
Back when Howard had crafted the Vibranium shield for him, neither of them had realized the destructive potential of the weapon. Steve had thrown the shield, which had rebounded off a wall, severing a hanging lamp's cord in the process.
With a crash, the lamp fell to the ground. Steve instinctively ducked backward, inadvertently denting the lab table's cabinet door. Howard had exploded in anger, and Steve had spent the whole night repairing the damaged cabinet.
Passing by that very lab table, Steve encountered many other familiar things—parts of the hovercar that Howard had often boasted about, various models piled up in the corner of the room, and even Playboy posters partially peeled from the wall...
Steve could almost see his old friend Howard bustling around the lab table, while he himself sat at the table behind, devouring a hamburger.
Back then, they were both busy—Howard providing logistical support with various weapons while Steve fought their enemies.
As mories flooded his mind, Steve took a seat by the wall at a small table. He could almost sll the aroma of the hamburger.
A crinkling sound reached his ears as the wrapping paper was torn open. Steve turned his head and saw not Howard, finally taking a break to eat, but Stark.
Stark held a cheeseburger, its aroma wafting as he unwrapped it. Turning his head toward Steve, Stark caught him salivating and switched the burger to his other hand, saying, "Don't bother looking; food isn't a concern here."
"Is this your world of consciousness?" Steve inquired.
"Correct," Stark replied between bites. "You have to enter my dream before embarking on this journey within dreams."
"I'm sorry, Tony," Steve lowered his head, his voice heavy with sadness.
In this realm filled with details and mories, soone's death ceased to be just a cold statent or a notification. Every detail here made Steve realize that Howard had once lived and left countless traces in this world. His life had abruptly ended at so point, and those traces remained unchanged...
Seeing it all, Steve grasped the extent of the pain Howard's death had caused Stark. Like his father, Stark was a genius, endowed with mory far beyond ordinary people's, thus lacking the solace of forgetfulness—a redy often available to those who bear wounds.
At least within this dream space, Stark retained every detail of his ti with Howard. And now, all those monts unfolded before Steve's eyes.
Stark walked over, taking a seat across from Steve at the small table. The chair opposite the table was noticeably lower, ant for a child. Yet, the now-tall Stark sat on the small stool, creating a comical sight.
With their backs against the wall, Steve and Stark sat at opposite ends of the table, one tall and one short, like a balance.
Steve turned to see Stark, who appeared weighed down more heavily than him. He knew that if they were truly a scale, Stark's side would be heavier, carrying the burden of his father's death.
Only when witnessing soone sinking into lancholy before their eyes did Steve truly understand the weight of death and separation in one's life.
"I didn't bring you into my world of consciousness to hear your apology," Stark said, taking a deep breath before making a decision that seed to demand significant courage.
"I've read nurous books on psychology, conducted extensive analysis. I believe this could help with your condition."
Stark looked up, gazing through the glass at the blinking light in the opposite laboratory. He continued, "The era that belonged to you and him is gone forever. Many people you once knew are no longer here, and the things you once possessed are lost."
"You've been desperately searching for a person to prove your own existence, but your existence itself is evidence of their past presence."
"Your mories, the ti you spent with Howard, those monts etched in your mind, are another form of his existence. The most enduring nto left behind after his death."
"So, I should thank you. You can continue living while I can't. Thus, until my death, I can see traces of his existence through you..."
Unable to hold back, tears stread down Steve's face. His azure eyes shattered like a vast ocean, shimring like pearls amidst the ebb and flow of emotions.
Silence enveloped them for a while. Tony stood up first, saying, "When Professor X established the Radiance Alliance base within dreams, he marked our dreams in that base. This way, he could pull us here every night, and from there, we can follow his marks to Schiller's dream within Radiance Alliance's base."
Seeing Steve still silent, Stark decided not to elaborate further. He closed his eyes, releasing his consciousness and seeking the potential path.
Soundlessly, the walls of the room faded, light intensified, tiles spread across the floor, and a sofa descended from the sky. In the blink of an eye, they found themselves in the base's eting room...
Stark let out a sigh of relief, saying, "Thank goodness for magic. I just need to provide direction and navigation. This is all so surreal."
He added with a hint of disbelief, "So, who exactly are the monsters that can freely traverse dreams?"
"Is this an interdiate station?" Steve finally spoke up."Correct. Let look around and see if there are any marks leading to other people's dreams..." Stark closed his eyes, concentrating intensely as he began to sense the structure of this dream. After a mont, he raised an eyebrow and then said, "Found them."
However, soon after, he furrowed his brow, opened his eyes, and stared into the air as if scanning sothing. He said, "... What is all of this?"
"What's wrong?" Steve approached, asking.
"I found so paths that seem to connect to other places..."
"Isn't that good? We can just go there directly."
"The problem is, there are no signs."
Stark sighed and said, "Professor X might have another way to differentiate between these paths. After all, I don't really understand how mutants' telepathy works. But regardless, I can't tell where all these roads lead."
"Are there many paths? Can't we try them one by one?"
"We could..." After Stark finished speaking, he paused for a mont and then said, "Let's start with the first one."
With a swish, they were back in Stark's dream space. Stark shook his head and said, "It seems our luck isn't great."
After returning to the Radiance Alliance eting room, Stark selected the second path. Upon disappearing once again, they found themselves in a museum.
As Stark landed, he noticed a gun placed inside a display case in front of him. Upon approaching, he saw it was an old rifle, worn and deteriorated to the point that its exact model was difficult to discern.
He lowered his head and read the display panel:
"Bode Smith, 18 years old, from a farm in Michigan. Has a sweet tooth, biggest dream is to take his mother to New York, fond of the new firearms issued..."
Initially, Stark didn't grasp the connection between this introduction and the rifle inside the display case. It was only when he noticed blood stains on the bottom of the gun through the display case's light that he paused his finger on the display panel.
Walking a step forward, he encountered another display case, this one containing an old notebook. The display panel read:
"David Peter Rov, a brilliant engineer, drinks heavily but has a booming voice. Loves humming Soviet songs while fixing tanks..."
Continuing forward, he found nurous display cases containing various deteriorated items—keychains, belts, glasses, towels, and even a thermoter. At least in the real world, no museum would exhibit such items.
Yet, each of them was linked to a person's na, along with disorganized and nonsystematic records. These records usually consisted of a sentence or two about their favorite food, family mbers, and greatest wishes...
Turning a corner, Stark saw Steve standing at the end of another row of display cases, staring at the objects within. Upon approaching, he discovered a pair of gloves inside the case. The fingers were delicate, not the sort of gloves a man would wear.
Stark shifted his gaze downward, reading a na on the display panel—"Peggy Carter."
"... We sat on the steps in front of the garage, chatting. She told her childhood dream was to beco an artist, but during her ti, few supported a girl's independent work."
"I told her I'd paint a picture for her. She didn't believe ; I didn't look like soone who could afford brushes and paints. The military didn't have those things either. So, I burnt a piece of charcoal and sketched her repairing a tank."
"She was overjoyed. I could tell she really wanted that painting, but she didn't have the money to buy it. So, she tossed a pair of her gloves. When I saw her expression, I knew I was captivated..."
Steve pressed his finger against the glass of the display case. He then raised his head and gazed at row after row of display cases. He said, "Perhaps many people think that when I saw Peggy for the last ti, I should have been overwhelmingly sad..."
"But in reality, aside from the initial grief of death and separation, I even felt so relief. Her descendants thrive, and she lies peacefully on a sickbed. It's a kind of happiness to see her forr lover before passing away."
"And more people..." Steve turned his head to look at the objects inside the glass display cases. He said, "I can't even recall how they died. But among the owners of these artifacts, perhaps less than one in a thousand managed to die of old age."
"So were fatally shot, so had shrapnel embedded in their chests, so died of dysentery, and so froze to death. I wasn't there when they died, just received distant ssages..."
Steve looked up at the museum, then said, "Tony, I must apologize for this. For my impulsive actions to defend Bucky, although I'm not trying to justify myself. But when I heard about Howard's death, I didn't feel sadness, just numbness."
"I've heard too many pieces of news like that. On a certain day, a certain month, a person I once t on a battlefield died."
"They might have lain in a trench with , exchanged bullets, covered each other, and even shared a cigarette, or perhaps saved my life. But when they died, they left nothing."
Steve took a deep breath, raising his head to look at the display cases above. He said:
"Maybe you're right. That era has passed and will never return."
"My existence is evidence that they once lived and contributed to world peace. Perhaps, in the end, this world's compassion for an old soldier..."
Stark closed his eyes. He felt the edges of his eyelashes growing wet.
Death and separation, burdens unbearable in life, had been endured by this man countless tis.
Stark's sigh gradually dissipated within the dream space. In the middle of the long corridor filled with display cases, beneath dim lights, a faint shadow split the corridor in two halves, with Steve on one end and Stark on the other.
Neither of them heard it, but accompanied by a deep rumble, the end of the scale that had been lifted earlier now descended. The scale was restored to balance. Iron Man and Captain Arica stood side by side once more.
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