[h2][color=red][b][center]CAPTAIN AMERICA[/center][/b][/color][/h2] [center][color=red]SHEILD safehouse, Brooklyn New York[/color][/center][hr] Steve Rogers breathed in slowly. The air was a little stale, unsurprising for a place of brick and old wood that looked like it had been barely cleaned in a decade, even though he had spent the whole of yesterday tidying things up. It had been his sole occupation, in between reading whatever history books he could stomach. He was still struggling to wrap his head around things. Last week he had been in Germany, ducking behind whatever piece of rubble he could find while Nazi’s took pot shots at him and his boys. HYDRA had been up to something, even as their country collapsed all around them. Even as it was so damn [i]obvious[/i] that the war was lost. The next he was walking up in a cold, sterile room staring up at the faces of surprised doctors. He frowned as he flexed and massaged his right hand, pulsing with an old ache he earned doing something stupid in Tunisia. In a way he was glad he had been as disorientated as he was when he…woke up. The doctors had just been doing their job, thawing out what they thought was a corpse. Nobody expected him to be alive. Him included. Who the hell could live through something like that? He had been focused on getting out. They had chipped off most of the ice that, lethargic and confused as he was, he could do the rest. The race through the base had been…well, not pleasant. In hindsight he could understand their tactics more properly than he had in the moment, when everything was a bloodied blur. They tried to restrain him, first. But when he had cracked enough skulls they just decided to hang back, keep an eye on him while he tried to run and form a proper response team. He had stopped when he had burst onto the deck of the Helicarrier. So much space. So much impossibility. When he had calmed down, they approached him. Began to explain. Steve took another deep breath, letting the stale air wash through him. He held it for a few moments, before slowly releasing his breath. It had been a week or two since that mess. He couldn’t stay so directly on a SHIELD facility like that, apparently. People were already beginning to talk. So they had, upon return to New York, shunted him into this safehouse while they figured out what to do with him. Maybe he could’ve run. Slipped out the door and began to explore his home, so twisted and changed by the passage of time. But he had caught a glimpse of it on the way in. He’d get used to it later. Right now he preferred this solitude. Walking to the center of the room he approached a stained punching bag. It was an old thing, of taut leather and faded colors. Scratches marked it, and here or there lay a sloppy patch job to keep it together. He couldn’t even begin to let loose on it. But it was what he had. So he settled into a stance, and went through the old motions. As his fists hit the punching bag he couldn’t help but note with some amusement that he probably would’ve found this place nice, back in the day. Small, compact and filled with all the little necessities of life. If he had seen it when it was first built, that is. Right now he was most likely older than it. Maybe the whole building. Rusted metal chains groaned in protest when he hit the punching bag too hard, sending it snapping it away from him. For a second it looked like the punching bag was going to slip loose, but ultimately the chains and leather held, and it soared back to him. He caught it with a single hand, frowning. He was already looking at the door before it even began to open. Sharon Rogers stepped in. A short woman, dressed smartly in a SHIELD issued suit, her dirty blond hair was neatly tied in a bun. And her cool blue eyes swept the room, before meeting his own for a moment. Under one arm was a roll of newspapers. A duffle bag was slung over her other shoulder. “Captain,” she said, unsmiling. He nodded to her, holding the punching bag in place so the creaking of the steel chains didn’t get too loud. Shaon Rogers was, apparently, a descendant of his sister. She was a link, of sorts. A thing to hold to and say that this world was real. Probably why they assigned her to be his handler. And that's what she was, despite all the words they tried to use. They wanted to make sure he didn’t break anything. Storm through central park on a rampage. They didn’t say any of that, of course. But he wasn’t an idiot. Well, not completely. He accepted the oversight, such as it was, without a word. He understood. The world was beyond strange, and he appreciated the company. As she entered the room she tossed the wad of newspapers on an old, cheap table. The duffle bag gently sat on the ground next to it. “Looks like things got out.” Sharon said as she leaned against a counter, crossing her arms. Steve walked over, shifting the newspapers so he could get a look at them all at the same time. Pictures of SHIELD, its helicarrier, its bases, symbol, whatever they could get their hands on stood prominent on the pages. A few of them had some scientists that he had been told found him. And, most prominently, photos of him. “Not surprising.” Sharon continued. “Something like this…well, it was never in the plan to keep you hidden forever. Just long enough to get your bearings.” And for SHIELD to get its own, Steve thought. “But too many people saw you. Some grunts probably talked too. So the timetable has been moved up a bit. Tomorrow the Director will be confirming that you’re alive. I’ve been asked to put forward a request that you stand on the stage when that happens.” “A request?” He said, wrapping his hands. Sharon nodded. “Just a request. Not an order. Things have moved more quickly than we had hoped, so…” He had never been shy, not truly. But the thought of standing in front of stage, looking into a sea of strangers, nailing it in with their questions and their cameras that he was truly lost from his home punched at him. Maybe he should. Get out of this safe-house, stand in front of the world proudly. But he was never proud. “I’ll think about it.” He said. “But no promises.” Sharon shrugged. “Don’t worry too much about it. This was a last minute thing.” She waved a hand, gesturing to the duffle bag. “Besides, they managed to gather some of your old things.” Old things…? Curious, Steve picked up the duffle bag and hauled it onto the table. He only opened it half-way when he saw his shield. He paused for the moment, staring at the gleaming metal. When he last saw it, the old girl was coated in frost and blood. But now…now it was clean. Proud. He pulled the rest of the zipper back, revealing a uniform he was all too familiar with. Slowly, with a care that he knew with bone deep experience that was unnecessary, he picked up his shield and held it in front of him. The white star flashed in the low light. “A bit delayed,” Sharon said quietly. “But welcome back, Captain.”