Those bloody cards. That awful splat as they landed on the glass. Rogers couldn't resist. He picked them up, smearing the blood of the fallen hero along the glass. Fingerprints obscured the old-fashioned, cardboard smile.
The owner of these cards had been the real hero.

The smell of the iron-rich liquid cloyed at his nostrils, invoking the spirits of his long dead Commandos, who howled across the breach of death to cry out for vengeance.

He looked toward Stark, who nodded. They both knew the score; that bastard Fury was manipulating them.

But Coulson was worth it.