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CAPTAIN AMERICA
SHEILD safehouse, Brooklyn New York



The T.V was buzzing in the background.

It was a strange thought to him. They had once been rare, solely the domain of those who could truly afford them. Now, though, now they were as commonplace as coffee. Neatly replacing the radio, at least in most things. They were like automobiles in that sense, Steve guessed. Time and advancement made both an expected commonality. And he had practically skipped over the development of both.

The shield sparked off the brick as it bounced around the walls. Each hit gave out a ringing sort of noise. Not the hard clang you’d expect out of metal. But this wasn’t any ordinary thing. The vibranium shield darted about like some sort of demented boomerang, chipped edges off the bricks it hit before it soared back to him. With an ease borne of bone-deep experience—and the bruises from failure—Steve caught his shield with one hand.

He felt a true smile come onto his face when he looked at it. Out of everything that could’ve lasted the test of time, he wasn’t surprised that the shield made it. Himself, on the other hand…well, he was sure SHIELD’S doctors and scientists were puzzling over that. Like he admittedly was. All that time beneath the ice, and the world still turned. He just had to figure out how to catch up.

Maybe the director's invitation was the right thing…

He looked up to the T.V again, that marvel of technology quietly delighting him. He had grasped the basics on how to operate it, and had been switching the…channels? Yes, the channels at random. Letting it play for a bit before moving on. His smile flickered when he saw what was on. He didn’t mind the news. Found it rather important, actually. Practically an institution. But he was getting used to the future, and the…family? Superhero team?

The group. The group that was on WHIH Newsfront was, so far, a rather excellent symbol for the sheer oddity of this new age he found himself in.

The Fantastic Four was an interesting name, but he’s heard worse. The people in it, though…apparent super genius who, in part, reminded him of Howard Stark. If a lot more disheveled. Doctor Storm, cold and curt, if perhaps a little correct. Her brother, he guessed, Johnny was reminding him of certain men he met on the frontlines, in a way he wasn’t sure was good. And then this Ben fellow…

Well. He apparently liked being called ‘The Thing.’ That said enough, Steve figured.

He had been only half listening to the broadcast, focused as he was on his shield and devouring some of the more current date history. They were a strange bunch. More like celebrities than superheroes. Flashy entrance. Bright, big story that everyone seemed ready to believe. Set themselves up neatly with some good business moves. Strange folk. But they were downright cuddly compared to some of the other things he’s learned.

Mutants. The word was incredibly loaded, from what he could gather. Their treatment, the way not only people, but the government handled them was just beyond abhorrent. Power could be dangerous. He wasn’t going to deny that. Not with what Schmidt had done with his. But this? This heavy-handed treatment of the government's people?

He had to take a moment when he had caught up on some current affairs. He had been working through the decades, but he had gotten too curious about modern day affairs. It was just…Well, he half-expected some people to start goose-stepping whilst they screamed out their hate. There were ways to deal with the situation, and this wasn’t it. He was still trying to wrap his head around it.

Steve turned his gaze to the T.V again, catching the last words the host, Christine, had managed to get off before the Fantastic Four abruptly vacated their seats.

"Yes, well, we hope you'll come back soon and--...I'm sorry, we've got a breaking news report. Sources are reporting an explosion and multiple gunshots here in downtown Manhattan. Police are attempting to cordon off the area, but eyewitnesses claim a super-human is on the scene, and--...Doctor Richards? Where are you going?"

Steve frowned at the words, his shield heavy in his hand. That wasn’t too far off. He looked down, bringing his other hand up to hold his shield in two hands. He had just cleaned it, so the vibranium glinted in the light of the safehouse. He was still getting his bearings in this strange world. SHIELD wanted him to stay put until they figured some things out. Keep an eye on him. He couldn’t quite blame them.

But people were being hurt. And he was close by.

Decision made, Steve turned around and began walking towards the safehouse's bedroom. He had left his uniform there. If he was going to do anything, it’d best be with that on. The press conference would have to wait, cameras and questions and all those little things.

He had his duty to perform.

Might join in on the highway event. Have good 'ol cap be a late-ish arrival.
CAPTAIN AMERICA
SHEILD safehouse, Brooklyn New York



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 obvious 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.”




Got my own writing sample up.


Let me know if you want help figuring out how to format the character sheet so it looks like the others. I know it can be tricky if you aren't familiar with the Guild's coding.


The thoughts appreciated! I think I managed to make it into something a little more uniform.





Yeah I admit I wouldn't mind a discord.
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