THE STAR SPANGLED MAN WITH A MANPAIN [open]
who ; Steve Rogers
what ; Steve set up an obstacle course for himself in the junkyard to try and get away from people for a bit and get out of his own head.
where ; THE JUNKYARD \o/
when ; Right. Now.
warning(s) ; FEELINGS.... This happened sooner than expected, but he's starting to wrestle with his own uncertainty re: his political position in America and where his loyalties should ultimately lie. Rather, I should say he's just being punched repeatedly with the idea that his government isn't everything he thought was. BEING PRIVY TO UNPLEASANT INFORMATION FROM THE FUTURE CAN DO THAT TO A NATIONAL EMBLEM OR SOMETHING.
The clangor of metal and shattering glass bounces off the junkyard walls from somewhere deep in one of the less-cleared spaces. It's where Steve has set up shop, which I appropriately typed as shotput, because that's more or less what he's doing. Tumbling down hills of debris, bouncing his shield off of chosen targets, practicing hurling and retrieving it on the move. It's almost mechanical, despite the fact that this is a new obstacle course - even despite the fact that he has to occasionally block stuff falling from the sky.
He's distracted. Not missing catches, but not fluid, not focused, not really there.
There's a difference between knowing the senator you ran the press circuit for wasn't a completely stand-up guy and hearing that your governing body let thousands - millions - die.
He scrambles his way up one pile and jumps, rolls, comes to his feet and shoots the shield at his next obstacle.
There's a difference between not thinking past the next mission, because you didn't know if you'd make it through, and wondering if you had made it what your country would have done with you after it was all over. Lab rat? Maybe. Would he have let them? He doesn't know.
Keep moving. When sitting for hours sketching your thoughts out doesn't help, just pick a marathon task and keep moving.
Steve annihilates the last target, catches the shield one-handed, and grits his teeth in unsatisfied frustration. This isn't working. He doesn't feel any better, can't think any clearer, this isn't working.
There's a leaning monument of universal detritus to his left. It's part impulse, part personal test, part stupidity prompted by anger - but he rockets the shield at the structural weakness of its base, a crooked length of support beam, catches the shield as it ricochets back, and slides it onto his arm to face down the avalanche.
It's different than going after a human target, that's for sure. The screaming thunder of debris grating as it starts to move, the pebble-impacts of small objects flying past- but it does the one thing Steve hasn't been able to achieve with his other improvised targets. He's forced to react, pure and simple, to block, to hammer aside, to crush bare-fisted or with his shield, to fight and keep fighting with nothing between the disaster and himself but himself. He pulls a muscle in his leg first. Feels something strain in his back. Takes a blow on his unshielded arm and feels it deepen a fresh bruise. He's half-blinded by sweat, dust, a cut above one eye that runs blood down the side of his face.
He's starting to swing wild when he realizes the avalanche is over. Steve staggers back a step. Rests a hand on the nearest solid object to stay upright. He reaches up and swipes his eyes clean, squinting at the... well. The complete and total mess he's made.
He didn't quite mean to.... Be so dramatic. At least he's too tired to be upset any more.
Steve winces. Too tired and too beat up.
what ; Steve set up an obstacle course for himself in the junkyard to try and get away from people for a bit and get out of his own head.
where ; THE JUNKYARD \o/
when ; Right. Now.
warning(s) ; FEELINGS.... This happened sooner than expected, but he's starting to wrestle with his own uncertainty re: his political position in America and where his loyalties should ultimately lie. Rather, I should say he's just being punched repeatedly with the idea that his government isn't everything he thought was. BEING PRIVY TO UNPLEASANT INFORMATION FROM THE FUTURE CAN DO THAT TO A NATIONAL EMBLEM OR SOMETHING.
The clangor of metal and shattering glass bounces off the junkyard walls from somewhere deep in one of the less-cleared spaces. It's where Steve has set up shop, which I appropriately typed as shotput, because that's more or less what he's doing. Tumbling down hills of debris, bouncing his shield off of chosen targets, practicing hurling and retrieving it on the move. It's almost mechanical, despite the fact that this is a new obstacle course - even despite the fact that he has to occasionally block stuff falling from the sky.
He's distracted. Not missing catches, but not fluid, not focused, not really there.
There's a difference between knowing the senator you ran the press circuit for wasn't a completely stand-up guy and hearing that your governing body let thousands - millions - die.
He scrambles his way up one pile and jumps, rolls, comes to his feet and shoots the shield at his next obstacle.
There's a difference between not thinking past the next mission, because you didn't know if you'd make it through, and wondering if you had made it what your country would have done with you after it was all over. Lab rat? Maybe. Would he have let them? He doesn't know.
Keep moving. When sitting for hours sketching your thoughts out doesn't help, just pick a marathon task and keep moving.
Steve annihilates the last target, catches the shield one-handed, and grits his teeth in unsatisfied frustration. This isn't working. He doesn't feel any better, can't think any clearer, this isn't working.
There's a leaning monument of universal detritus to his left. It's part impulse, part personal test, part stupidity prompted by anger - but he rockets the shield at the structural weakness of its base, a crooked length of support beam, catches the shield as it ricochets back, and slides it onto his arm to face down the avalanche.
It's different than going after a human target, that's for sure. The screaming thunder of debris grating as it starts to move, the pebble-impacts of small objects flying past- but it does the one thing Steve hasn't been able to achieve with his other improvised targets. He's forced to react, pure and simple, to block, to hammer aside, to crush bare-fisted or with his shield, to fight and keep fighting with nothing between the disaster and himself but himself. He pulls a muscle in his leg first. Feels something strain in his back. Takes a blow on his unshielded arm and feels it deepen a fresh bruise. He's half-blinded by sweat, dust, a cut above one eye that runs blood down the side of his face.
He's starting to swing wild when he realizes the avalanche is over. Steve staggers back a step. Rests a hand on the nearest solid object to stay upright. He reaches up and swipes his eyes clean, squinting at the... well. The complete and total mess he's made.
He didn't quite mean to.... Be so dramatic. At least he's too tired to be upset any more.
Steve winces. Too tired and too beat up.