Steve Rogers returned to the world in degrees. In a sparkle of dull, distant pain that wormed its way down his fingers. In the insistent plinking of ice water on the back of his neck. In the distant rumble of aircraft engines somewhere overhead.

Engines…

There was something bizarrely familiar about that. Like the distorted echo of the jet engines he could hear were some reflection of a half forgotten memory. He opened his eyes.

Found that, for a confusing moment, nothing before him made any sort of sense. Battered metal walls, long jagged gash in one that admitted a stream of brilliant sunlight. Looking directly into it was like staring at a magnesium flare. Rogers tried to turn his head, muscles cooperated only begrudgingly. Odd feeling that he was moving his muscles and ligaments and bones the wrong way. Like they'd snap and tear if he pushed any further.

God…

How cold he was. How sore. How hurt and confused and-

He froze. The jet engines were closer now, heightening in pitch, first to a whine, then a shriek. Rogers felt the hair on the back of his neck try to rise, but he was still too stunned to be more than distantly alarmed.

Closer and closer, the noise of the jet rattling his teeth, boring into his very mind. Then the beam of sunlight coming in through the ceiling of his strange little enclosure blinked out for an instant. Came back. The jet had buzzed right over him, Rogers realized.

He tried to sit up, was unable to lever himself more than a few inches away from the wall he'd crumpled against before he slid helplessly back into position.

"Ow…" He managed to say. Hardly recognized the creaking groan that came from his own throat. That scared him. And the fear afforded his cold numbed mind some much needed clarity.

He needed to remember where he was. That was the first thing. The second would be getting out before he froze to death. He couldn't remember how long he'd been…

Was this a bomber?

Rogers blinked. Managed to force one hand up to the wall. Felt the rivets studding the metal, evidence of careful engineering.

It was a bomber…

He processed this information slowly. Looked around the interior of the fuselage more carefully and was momentarily embarrassed that he hadn't recognized his location sooner.

But even as he stared he felt fresh confusion rise within him. The layout of this plane was strange, bizarrely familiar but still deeply alien. Definitely not American or British.

No…this had to be a Nazi bomber.

And with that everything clicked suddenly into place. Christ…the war, the mission, his fight to keep the Nazis from dropping anthrax bombs all over the East Coast. The damage the bomber had taken in that struggle…a cold white landscape rushing up at him as he held grimly to the controls…

He'd held for as long as he could. He remembered that now. Had jettisoned the bombs into the ocean, where they'd never harm anyone or anything. Had even smiled grimly at the thought of Hitler and his gaggle of parading fascist stooges in Berlin hearing the news of their failure.

Then the bomber had slammed into the ground, and all had gone to gray.

And yet…somehow he was alive. Stunned and hurt, yes, but definitely alive. Rogers didn't think that the afterlife would hurt quite as much as this.

He'd obviously been out for a while too. Enough for the bomber to settle in the snow and the last hissing ticks of the ruined engines to fade. Rogers tried to sit up again, managed to lever himself into a slightly better position now, biting back a hiss of pain as he did so. Trying to get his muscles to work was like stretching cold taffy…he almost felt like they'd snap sooner than expand.

But at the same time he welcomed the pain. It mingled elaborately with the threads of joy he could feel welling up within him, the realization that he was still kicking, still ready to take the fight to Hitler and his stooges.

Vision blurred to static for a moment as he forced himself into a kneeling position, massaging numb legs with hands that bristled with pins and needles. He could remember having to soak his hands in hot water after childhood snowball fights…just so his fingers would start to work again. This felt something like that.

From this new vantage point Rogers could see more of the fuselage. Could see that the cockpit had crumpled inwards…had probably tossed him back during the crash, right into a steel bulkhead.

But where was all of the equipment? Rogers had remembered the bomber being stuffed with ammunition and flares and all sorts of goodies. The Nazis crewing the beast had been expecting heavy resistance from the Air Force. And yet all of it was gone now. Maybe thrown from the plane during the crash?

Swept out by the little river of ice water burbling along the bottom of the fuselage? It was vaguely troubling, but Rogers didn't let it distract him from his quest to get his legs working again.

Part of him was frustrated by the slow progress. It demanded that he leave the bomber as soon as possible and establish a perimeter. Perhaps hunt down a Nazi flare or two to signal that jet that had buzzed him earlier. Doubtlessly that had been an American fighter tasked with searching for him.

But even as he gritted his teeth and kneaded at his stubborn, cold locked muscles, Rodgers chided himself gently. You've just survived an air crash, he said to himself, one that would definitely have killed virtually anyone else. It's okay. Take your time.

That calmed him a little and by the time he had managed to get unsteadily to his feet, Rodgers even felt like taking a brief jog once he got outside. To shake the last of the cold from his system. He burned hotter than other people thanks to the super-soldier serum, and exercise only exacerbated that. Of course, getting his hands on a survival kit and building a fire wouldn't hurt either.

He stood there in the fuselage, hunched over like an old man (bombers were not designed to hold six foot six super-soldiers), looking around him.

There was a crunched door that had, once upon a time, led out over the wing of the bomber, but from the way the downed Nazi bomber was tilted Rogers knew that if he forced it open then all he'd be faced with would be snowpack.

He shuffled around, splashing through snowmelt, and then paused.

His shield.

Where was his shield?

It wasn't on his back…so it had most definitely been knocked away during the crash. Rodgers looked around the fuselage. Caught sight of no red, white and blue emblazoned shield.

"Okay…" He said aloud, "I was thrown back into the bulkhead during the crash," a glance back at the sizable dent he'd made, "I had my shield then…so it should be around here somewhere…unless…" His eyes dropped to the newly formed creek passing through the bottom of the fuselage.

Oh. Okay. It had been swept into the mangled cockpit by the waters.

Bracing himself on the wall, Rogers hobbled forward, leaving a quiet stream of quasi-profanities behind him. Poked his head into the darkened cockpit. Was greeted by a crunched mess of metal and shredded fabric. The occasional drip of water from a shriveled hand that stuck from the jumble, like a neighbor waving hello.

Ah…the co-pilot. Rogers averted his eyes from the protruding arm, knelt painfully down and scanned the bottom of the cockpit. But even as he caught sight of a familiar gleam of silvery metal, something started to reverberate in the back of his mind.

Something troubling.

He straightened back up, shield held loosely in one hand. Looked down from his hand to that of the dead Nazi in the co-pilot's chair.

It was shriveled. Blue-brown, spotted with patches of decay.

Rogers took an uneasy step back.

That took an awful lot longer than just a few hours or days to happen. Especially in sub-zero temperatures.

Rogers turned, limped as quickly as he could along the ruined fuselage of the Nazi bomber.

Just how long had be been unconscious?