[Mad World]
The white was calming; it seeped into his confused mind and numbed the hot friction of thoughts as they rubbed against each other.
His eyes focused on something only he could see as his mind tried to figure out what had happened. His memories brought confusion and then nothing. His eyebrows drew together as he tried to remember and think. He could remember the crushing impact of the plane as the water and ice met it. The nothing was a relief to him after the jarring confusion. Even now his body could still remember the plane shaking. It was disconcerting.
He kept his eyes closed for a moment after waking and let the sounds of the radio and the fan sooth him. He felt alive, and that was more he ever thought he would feel again. It was exhilarating to feel the smooth sheets beneath his fingertips and to breathe in and out, the sheer relief of being alive.
But as he breathed in and out he couldn't get rid of a persistent feeling of wrongness. Something was off, and with that realization he couldn't ignore the sense of danger.
He was tempted to continue to lie in bed, but he never could just let things go.
He stretched out his senses and finally found what was wrong, the radio. It was playing the wrong game.
Why would someone take the trouble to make him feel relaxed unless there was something very wrong?
His mind leapt to Hydra. He assumed they knew he was awake and would be coming. For some reason they wanted him alive, which was enough for him to want to get out of here.
He knew he had to get out and keep running. So he did, knocking over the guards and ignoring how wrong everything felt, because he could figure it out later. So he shoved everything into a corner of his mind and concentrated on getting out of here.
He slowed down as the sounds of a seemly louder and more colorful New York hit him. Everything was clamoring, and the smell was different. Times Square had changed. The pictures moved and flashed in his face, and everything was throwing him off-balance, because it matched what he remembered while being differently enough to be uncomfortable. And he didn't understand why.
Men in suits surrounded him. He didn't even know who he should be fighting against, because everything was wrong. It was this more than anything that made Steve listen to the man in the eyepatch even when the man told him he had been asleep for years and his mind told him that was impossible. He should be dead. He'd been ready to die.
Now what?
The men, SHIELD his mind supplied, led him to a nondescript white van lined with seats. He sat down automatically not really paying attention to what was going on around him, and leaned his head back on the side of the van closing his eyes.
Everything had changed, and he still wasn't sure whose side he was on.
The blank men sitting across from him on the van's benches stared at him. Was that natural for them?
'You've been asleep for almost seventy years.' The words echoed in his mind. He believed them; the evidence was all around him. People dressed differently, cars were smoother, and steel and glass buildings reached into the sky far above him. The comfortable brick and stone buildings had grown smaller as the buildings grew above them. It made him feel small.
He had no reason to distrust the men around him, but he was still scrambling to find some way to relate to the new world.
The world had changed around him, and he didn't know if he could change fast enough to catch up with it.
As he stepped out of his front door his shoulders tensed up. He knew that he should get out of his apartment and face the world. He'd never been good with being alone, and that still hadn't changed even after being asleep for years.
He shoved his hands in his pockets, and started to walk down the sidewalk. People bumped into his shoulders and pushed by him, so many people. The differences in their clothing and in the buildings were off-putting. Everything screamed wrong at him and reminded him just how far he was from familiar.
After he gave into his impulse to stare at the buildings surrounding him, he felt almost engulfed by the skyscrapers. He felt like a tourist. Even though he lived in New York his whole life, he still stared like he was there for the first time; in a manner of speaking he was. The sheer size and movement of the city was amazing.
And if he was honest, slightly intimidating. He could pretend he was in another city, and that New York wasn't his city, but every so often something familiar hit him with the inescapable fact that he was in New York and somehow 70 years in the future where the unfamiliar blended with the familiar.
He cocked his head and paused. He could hear something barely there as if it was whimpering or at the end of its strength. Suddenly a cry for help shot through the crowd. "SOMEONE HELP ME! PLEASE!" The desperation in the voice struck him as it always did.
But it didn't strike anyone else; the crowd barely paused. A few glanced up from their cell phones (Steve was still getting used to the idea of portable phones) before the phone's screen grabbed their attention again. The message was clear. Not my business.
Steve's face hardened. Not that much had changed after all. People were still afraid to stand up, and finally the world snapped into focus. For the first time since waking up, this was familiar, and he forced his way through the crowd, his movements sure.
The voice fell mostly silently groaning weakly as dull thuds came from an alley; the sound of it twisting his stomach. Steve ran faster.
Men surrounded a miserable heap by the side of the alley. One looked up as Steve's shoes scrapped the pavement at the alley's entrance.
He said, "Move along," as his eyes never left Steve's. The threat in those eyes made Steve smile inwardly. He had met it many times before.
Steve met the man's gaze.
"How about you walk away?" Steve replied. The heap on the ground twitched, and Steve's eyes shifted towards it. He tilted his head carefully to the side his gaze penetrating the man. "And I let you go."
Everyone was listening now.
The one who had spoken laughed. "Is this guy for real?" His friends laughed harder. He dismissed Steve with a wave and turned back toward the heap. "Go back to playing hero. The real world doesn't have a place for you." Steve's eyes hardened and he stepped farther into the alley.
The men were not expecting that and actually took a step back before they realized how many they had against him. Steve smiled. They could count, not that it would matter; the outcome would be the same.
Steve stopped and shifted his feet for better balance, his whole attention on the fight ahead, because what they were doing was brutal and must be stopped.
'Might does not make right.'
The kid on the left bounced up and down, his shoulders and hands twitching. Steve watched the kid's eyes for where and when he will move. The others were confident in their ability to beat him, but the kid? He had something to prove.
The eyes blinked rapidly before steadying. The kid was going to rush him. The forward motion was in the eyes before the kid's foot touched the ground, and Steve blocked the blow before smashing the kid's face into the side of the alley. The twitchy kid crumpled.
The casual and easy way Steve moved gave the others pause before indignation took over. The kid on the ground was their friend, and no one had the right to beat him up.
It just gives you an excuse to do what you want, because no one will stand up against you for what is actually right.
The rest had stopped smiling.
One grabbed a knife from his pocket and flicked it open; he jabbed it at Steve while his friends circled Steve for an opening. Steve smashed his elbow into the knife wielder's wrist. It broke with a snap that made the man gasp in pain. Then Steve punched the man in the face, and as he stumbled backward blind and confused, Steve hit him again. He wasn't getting up.
You are wrong.
Steve balanced lightly on his feet.
The scrapped of a boot behind Steve was the first warning Steve had before the one behind him tried to punch him in the kidneys. Steve spun to the side and kicked the man's knee in causing it to buckle the wrong way. The man fell clutching his knee groaning.
Because might doesn't make right.
Steve looked at the last man standing, the one who had spoken, and the threat in the eyes was gone, instead the eyes held an emotion Steve was sure the man was unused to: fear.
"You have two choices," Steve stated, "You could run and save yourself a broken hand, or you could stay and break your hand. " Steve felt his knuckles tighten and shrugged, "I'm good with either."
The man stumbled backward and scrambled to his feet before running.
'Right makes might.'
Steve watched him go. "Good choice." The other men he left moaning on the ground as he walked over to the heap. He knelt by it and turned the body over. It (or rather she) groaned. She was too badly beaten to do more than dazedly blink at him. He gently picked her up and carried her out.
Mike was having a surreal day. Captain America was walking before him. The name itself was enough to bring back fond memories of his childhood, but the fact that Captain America was walking before him made him faint with excitement, a fact he was trying to ignore. His professional face was all he showed.
He was after all following Captain America.
Mike stopped beside a store's window as Captain America paused to look at a car in a showroom. He tapped his ear and said, "Agent Wilson reporting in."
"Base hears you. Go on."
"He is at the corner of Lincoln and first. Nothing's happening; he's just looking at things."
"I understand. Continue to follow him."
Mike grunted, and he paused before continuing. "Base…what is the reason for this?"
"Fury's orders."
Mike was silent for a moment. That was all she really needed to say. Fury was a paranoid bastard, and everyone knew that.
"Copy that. Wilson out."
Captain America disappeared into an alley up head. Mike casually walked over. When he realized what was happening, he tapped his ear again.
"Base?"
"We're listening, Agent Wilson."
"We are going to need an ambulance here."
By the time Steve had reached the entrance of the alley, the ambulance lights were flashing in his face, and EMTs were rushing a gurney over to him.
"Put her here, sir." One of them ordered Steve. Steve carefully laid her down, and then the gurney was moving. Steve stared after them.
"Here, sir." Steve looked around sharply at the voice. A black suited man was motioning to him. "We have to get you home."
"How do you…." Steve stopped realization dawning. "You're with SHIELD."
"Yes, sir."
"Are you following me?" His voice was steady, but there was a shift in it. Battle lines had been drawn. The man nodded.
"For how long?"
"We never lost you." Mike kept his face professional as a vein in his temple twitched nervously.
Steve regarded him silently and then turned to walk away.
He was a soldier, and he obeyed commands, but he never liked over controlling commanders or manipulation. He didn't know if he could trust them in return.
He didn't know if he wanted to.
The reality shifted out of focus again.
Steve strode into SHIELD headquarters prepared for war. The receptionist's mouth gapped open as he walked up to her. "I'd like to see Director Fury."
Her mouth snapped shut, and she picked up the phone. "D-Director Fury? " She looked at Steve disbelievingly as she said. "I have Captain America here to see you."
She nodded and set the phone down staring at it for a moment.
Steve shifted impatiently; her eyes snapped over to him. "You can go right up."
And he did, gathering his anger until it was a focused sharp sword. When he opened the door instead of throwing it up like he wanted to, he was fully in control of the white hot rage.
Fury looked up, and Steve supposed he should give the man points for not flinching when Steve walked in the room.
Steve stood at attention in front of Fury and didn't say anything. He didn't need to; Fury knew why he was here.
Fury sat back regarding Captain America with a passive face. "I don't think you see the threat you pose to the civilized world." Fury said deliberately. "Years after your disappearance millions were spent searching for the super-soldier serum, lives were lost, experiments failed."
Fury leaned forward. "Now that you're back, what do you think is going to be on certain peoples' mind?" He paused, "I don't like those odds."
Steve almost snorted. He didn't, because that would be too juvenile. "Are you saying following me was for my protection?"
"You're dangerous, Rogers, and in more ways than one. I don't know if the iced messed you up. Hell, I don't know you."
Steve raised an eyebrow, "That's bullshit, and you know it, sir. I think you're scared. I think you don't like someone you can't control."
"Do I look scared?" Fury asked sarcastically. He looked warningly at Steve. "I didn't get to be the head of a spy organization by trusting people. Paranoia is my job. Get used to it."
Steve didn't say anything. There wasn't really anything he could say. Fury made himself clear. He turned around to go and paused at the door. "You shouldn't put your trust in your paranoia; you should put your trust in people." He let the door shut behind.
…..
Wilson pushed the transmitter's call button. "He's sitting on a park bench….drawing." He released the button. Honestly, enough was enough. What was he, Mike, still doing here? Captain America knew he was there. The casual glances in Mike's direction convinced him of that fact. This was bull.
Joggers passed his park bench.
He glanced over to Captain America and saw him scribbling desperately in a note book. The desperation caught at Wilson; what could make an American hero who had gone through a world war and the Great Depression so despairing?
Steve sat hand poised over a notebook. He stared at a tree noting the way it twisted and turned in the sky and the patterns of light and dark that speckled its bark. It was alive and moved. The moment of looking at it filled his mind and calmed his thoughts as he focused on it. His feelings of confusion and frustration filled his hands, and he drew with harsh dark lines. The pencil marks nearly tore through the paper.
Her folder sat in his apartment silent on his table. It dominated his imagination. His fingers hurt as he gripped the pencil harder; the memory of a glossy paper with her picture on his fingers.
She's not here, and a future with her can never be. His hand came down hard on the paper.
Why couldn't he have been faster? Or died the first time around? It would have been better than imagining something that can never be. Imagining, more like tormenting.
His eyes focused on the paper; in his eyes the feelings of loss usually buried behind distractions came to the surface and shimmered.
Darkened branches filled the page. A part of Steve that wasn't focused on his emotional turmoil liked the way the drawing was turning out. He could feel the emotions in the picture.
His heart and stomach felt empty as if he had taken the confusion and frustration from them and poured them onto the paper. He felt better.
The drawing was finished.
He couldn't stand the emptiness of the apartment anymore. Dusk was drifting over the sky and spread its shadow over New York. The key sat cold in his hand as he locked the door and turned to walk down the hall. Evening thrust its way into the hallway and laid heavy over Steve's eyes turning the atmosphere sleepy.
Talking was out of place; the very idea of speaking made his mouth unwilling. The motion of his legs and the ground as his feet hit it grew into the background. He clenched his fists in his pockets for lack of something better to do with them.
He still felt out of focus.
Restlessness demanded him move, but with each step his disquiet shifted and clenched.
Harder and harder his feet hit the pavement until he was running, speeding past people with the wind whipping past his eyes. The world narrowed to the movement of his body and the rushing of the wind.
"Shit." Wilson muttered as he tried to keep up with Captain America.
Panting he stopped and pressed the call button. "Base, I lost him. He's gone."
Steve didn't know how long he ran or even where he ran; the sense of running towards something, of having a purpose to run to, was intoxicating, but it came to an end too soon for Steve.
The corner he turned was a dead end, and Steve stopped himself with his hands just before he hit the wall. He stood like that before he crumpled to his knees.
He didn't know why he was reacting like this or what he was feeling; the seething wall of emotion was overpowering. And it was growing.
His chest heaved.
He clenched his fists and everything out. "WHY?" He screamed.
"He goes around, beats people up, and draws. That's all. It's making me depressed. Sir, he is self-destructing without a purpose. You have to give him a purpose or else we are going to lose him."
Fury leaned back his fingers tapping a thick file on his desk thoughtfully. Wilson caught the words Avenger Initiative printed in bold across the front of it. He shifted his eyes away from it. Fury must be really unsettled if he left it out where Mike could see it.
He shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
"Sir?"
Fury looked up, "Your analysis is noted."
Wilson waited.
Fury raised an eyebrow, "You're dismissed."
Long after Wilson left his office Fury sat tapping the folder a thoughtful look on his face.
Abraham Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute. See if you can find the quote.
First of all I want to say I'm sorry about the length of time it's taken me to post. I told myself that I wasn't going to be the author who didn't post for years and then suddenly starts again when the readers have lost interest. So, I'm sorry...to any readers I might have left.
But the good news is that I'm on the last chapter and just need to finish the last scene before I post.
I decided that I needed to rewrite some scenes and polish off some others, which is one of the reasons why I've taken so long (that and I was having trouble with starting some of the chapters).
Sorry about any mistakes.
And these characters aren't mine.
