4vA]^#PG#IN-3#ST-3#SP-2#DR-3#EP-1#FS-7#AD
Post by Captain America on Mar 3, 2007 4:50:29 GMT -5
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]It doesn’t matter where you thought you were going today.
You’re part of the bomb now.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
The thick, grey, omniscient, and overwhelming cloud of smoke encompassed the devastation about. Steel and iron pillars, jagged and torn, protruded up and out of the ground. Raised high, propped about by rubble. Concrete, rock, plaster, and smoldering ash laid about the scene, on the ground; it was the ground. Every inch of the area was littered with debris. Mounds upon mounds of it. Pilled atop each piece. The destruction was as one; the dust in the air and the rubble on the ground.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]And somewhere in the world –
A handful of men with famished eyes sit around a radio –
Or a telephone.
Twenty minutes –
Four thousand murders later –
They praise God for the blood that stains their hands.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Through the barely visible screen of smoke and dust, a lone figure could be scene walking about the devastation. Searching the surroundings. Digging through the carnage. Working through the plight and danger around him. Mournfully seeking, yet not once abandoning hope. A black silhouette in a sea of grey; blocking out the clear sky high above. The dust was everywhere. High. Low. All around. In his face. Brushing past his hands. Smoke. Ash. Particles. All smoldering free in the air. Yet, he worked through the hardship. Still persevering. Still looking for survivors. One man among many.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Oh, God–
How could this happen here?
We’ve got to be strong–
Stronger than we’ve ever been.
If we lose hope here–
Bury our faith in this darkness–[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Steve Rodgers, dressed in loose fitting blue jeans, work boots, a white t-shirt, working gloves, and a paper-thin mask over his mouth, continued on looking for any signs of life at ground zero of what was once the famous World Trade Center.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Then nothing else matters.
They’ve won.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Heaving a medium sized slab of concrete off to his side, with smaller pieces of shrapnel falling down as he put it away, his eyes became filled with determination has he looked down the twisted and coarse opening he uncovered.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]This time–[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Steve desperately reached his bloodstained glove forward, through the grey dust and into the darkened hole.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]This time–
Let it not be–[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
His fingers came short a few inches from the limp arm that draped across the ruble; the rest of the body trapped beneath. His heart sank as his gaze donned on its cold and unmoving fingertips. His blue eyes turned to sorrow.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Too late.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Picking himself up and away from hole before him, Steve hung his head low to his chest. His eyes were closed, taking a moment to himself in the wake of the tragedy around him. All those lives around that were lost; who huddled in the dark. Trapped. While a fire raged above their heads. Faces pressed against broken walls that locked them in. Clawing at the cold earth until it grew too hot to touch. And when there was nothing left to breathe there in the dark, they died. Steve reached his arm up, wiping the sweat off his face as dust clung against his perspiration; removing his mask as he took a breather.
“You have to sleep.”
A voice came through the smoke; belonging to a fireman who searched along the destruction along with Rodgers.
“I slept yesterday.” Steve replied back, before silently returning to his downward gaze from before. The curious fireman paused at his response; realizing that sometimes silence was the best response. Giving the man a few more moments to himself before asking another question.
“Where were you? When–”
“I wasn’t here.” Steve spoke before the other could finish. He knelt down back towards the hole he had cleared in front of him; his heart gaining weight as he began to speak more on the subject. “I run in the mornings. It’s a good feeling—when everybody’s on the street, running to work—”
Pausing, in speech and actions, he ceased clearing wreckage; turning his head subtly over his shoulder to speak to the firefighter behind him. “I saw a man and a woman—when I’d run here from the park.”
His voice was the only visible sign of the feelings he withheld.
“They jumped.” His sight drifted in thought. “Holding hands.”
Putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder before he could continue anymore, the fireman spoke. “I’ll get a stretcher.”
Upon his return, a simple cloth and rod stretcher underarm, Steve spoke upon his entrance as other crewmen worked about around them. “Have you seen the news?”
“Too much of it.” The fireman spoke as he set the stretcher on the ground; beginning to respectfully move the body on top of it.
“Do they know, yet?” Steve inquired.
“Oh, they know – but they’re still calling him a suspect. They say there’s no evidence, yet. They say they want to be sure.”
“We have to be sure.” Steve spoke as he helped cover the victim’s corpse with the stretcher’s blanket. “This is war.”
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Is this the face of your Great Satan?
Is this your offering to your God?
Your worship?
Your prayer?
Butchers—[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
All around, numerous police officers, firefighters, and volunteers rummaged through the devastating abyss; all the while Steve Rodgers joined in as he moved debris back and forth into nearby collection bins.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Tell the children this is a holy war.
But we’ve seen what stands behind you.
Heard them screaming open.
The gates of hell.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Through the grey dust, a confident man in a closed trench coat stormed through the scene; approaching Steve Rodgers. A large cloth satchel in his gloved grasp with a stern grimace on his unshaved face; accompanied by a black eye patch over his left eye.
“Thought I’d find you here.” Fury spoke; staring down at Steve he returned to the gesture.
“Where should I be?”
“Halfway to Kandahar, by now.”
The director of S.H.E.I.L.D. tossed the satchel in his grasp through the air in Steve’s direction; who caught it effortlessly with both hands.
“You can suit up when we’re in the air.”
Steve overlooked the weighted bag in his hands, which held an everyday familiarity in his eyes, before setting it down and away on the ground beside him in defiance; refusing Nick Fury’s orders as he looked back with determination.
“Oh—I’m sorry, Rodgers—was that too subtle for you?” Fury approached quickly, getting directly in Steve’s face while raising his tone. “Grab that gear and get moving!” Yelling blatantly to in front of him, he poked his index finger in Steven’s soiled and dust covered t-shirt. “I need you. Now.”
At that instant, Steve’s eyes shot wide with anger as his gloved hands shot forward into Fury’s chest; grabbing him by his loose lapels as he lifted the S.H.I.E.L.D. super spy off the ground. With his enhanced strength, Steve swung the object of his anger around; slamming Fury’s back into a protruding concrete slab; pinning him up against it. The assault was so jarring, that the signature eye patch that the S.H.I.E.L.D. director wore shifted and rustled out of place on his face.
“You need me? Look around—” With a rarely heard ferocity in his voice, Steve barked at Nick Fury; a scowl donning on his forehead as he looked into his good eye. “They need me. The ones who might have five minutes of breath or blood left before they die.”
“You go be a hero, Fury.” Releasing his hold of the man before him, Steve Rodgers turned his back to Nick Fury before scooping the parcel off the ground and walking away; not once looking back. “I’ve got work to do.”
“All right soldier—” Nick readjusted his loose eye patch back into position with a simple push from one hand “Back to the trenches.”
Knowing better than to try and provoke the super soldier any further, he parted ways with Steve; walking the opposite direction as he called back over his shoulder. “Do what you have to do.”
Later on, as night began to dawn on the city that never slept, Steve Rodgers walked the dust and soot covered streets of Manhattan; the roads and sidewalks void of life as sections were barricaded off with hazard lights and police tape. A grey mist of smoke still flooded the nearby surroundings as he continued to walk away from the wreckage; silently thinking to himself as the large satchel rested strapped over his right shoulder and against his back.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Yesterday—
This was another world. [/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
He stopped, taking a moment to himself as he let loose a stress withheld sigh; looking across the street adjacent to him. An abandoned bicycle lay restless on its side, as he began to remember what the neighborhood was like less than twenty-four hours earlier. A time when he would jog through it in the mornings; passing by citizens as they lived their daily lives. On their way to work. Enjoying the day. Meeting a friend. Not a carefree life, but a pleasant one. A father teaching his daughter how to ride a bicycle. A local hotdog vendor making his way. An elderly couple on a midday stole. But not anymore.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Yesterday—
When the sun could still shine—
On us.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Steve closed his eyes, the memories bittersweet, as he swung the bag he carried forward. Flipping the satchel open, he reached down inside and slid halfway out a large and magnificent circular object. As his fingers ran across its rim, it faintly echoed a metal sheen. A red ring encompassed outer area on the item’s flat surface, followed by a white ring, another red, and then a blue circle in the center; a white star placed firmly inside of it. A well known shield and symbol to the country it protected. Steve’s eyes nearly seemed to shimmer with tears as he took his gaze up from what he held in his hands; staring at the sky behind him. Where the iconic towers use to stand high up in the sky now remained a monstrous pillar of smoke and dust; ascending to the heavens.
Afterwards, walking down the streets through the local market, Steve could see a local citizen of Arabian decent standing by himself up the road. His white, buttoned up, long-sleeved shirt was undone at the color; with a white towel draped over his right shoulder. Half of his shirt was untucked as he walked to the street corner; his hands in his pockets. A mournful and sorrowful expression filled his clean shaven face, his short hair was a distraught mess as a result of the recent tragedy. He silently walked to himself, as a group of three suspicious men emerged from the local bar behind him; a look of suspicion and malice on their faces.
“It’s kind of late—” Steve couldn’t help but say as he approached the quiet man. “Maybe you shouldn’t be out by yourself.”
“I know what time it is. And I know where I am.” The man replied in defense as Steve passed by; his eyes filled with stress as
he snapped back. “I live here. My name’s Samir, not Osama. And my father was born on this street—”
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Tough kid.
Born here.
Raised here.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Steve couldn’t help but feel concerned for the man, Samir, as he walked between the silently aggravated men, who watched in return. Their eyes were on the lone man, walking about his business in his own neighborhood. It probably wasn’t first, nor would it be his last, hint towards attempted discrimination. Steve meant well, he always did, but within the atmosphere of sorrow and grief did tension naturally arrive.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]This doesn’t matter.
Not tonight.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
A blade shimmered in the fading light, held in the hand of one of the three men who approached Samir. In a white hooded sweatshirt, he rushed up from behind, knife raised, calling out subtly. “Killed her—”
Samir whipped himself around, a look of expression on his face before the attacker cried out again. “Killed my Jenny—”
A fire burned in the assailant’s eyes as Samir’s turned to fear upon viewing the knife before him. As tough as he had claimed to be, the man was defenseless against an armed man; who could do nothing more but recoil in horror. The anger in his voice elevated as he swung the weapon toward at the innocent man. “You’re gonna pay—” The man cried out with malice as he stabbed his blade forward with malicious intent.
Yet no blood was spilt, as the knife’s blade shattered upon contact against an adamantium shield. The blade cracked and split apart as it crashed against the red, white, and blue symbol.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0] We’ve got to be stronger than we’ve ever been.
Or they’ve won.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
A figure, donned in the colors of the nation he swore to protect, seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Red boots and gloves. Chain mail donned on his chest; a white star over his heart. The wings of freedom flew vigilant on the sides of his head; a capitol ‘A’ on his forehead. His appearance seemed to shimmer a golden glow behind his posture; naturally from the active streetlamp that shined down overhead. There, in full costume, stood Captain America between the attacker and his would-be victim. With his shield in his left arm, his stance was firm as he looked down on the troubled man; the disturbed citizen fell on his knees shortly after.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]We can hunt them down.
We can scour every bloodstained trace of their terror from the Earth.
We can turn every stone they’ve ever touched to dust, and every blade of grass to ash.
And it won’t matter.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
“I—I—” The man pleaded as the lose of loved ones accompanied with shame of what he had done filled his eyes.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]We’ve got to be stronger than we’ve ever been—
As a people. As a nation.
We have to be America.
Or they’ve one. [/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
“Cap?” The man began to plead, unable to explain his actions. Breaking down at the scene. Speechless as to find a reason for the hate inside of his heart; but coming up empty.
“You’ve lost someone.” The Captain said.
“Jenny.” The man replied with a soft tone and a heavy heart. “Cap, I, I—”
“I understand. You want justice.” Captain America reached forward and overturned the man’s hand, which held the blade previously. The hilt had split. The blade inside had shattered internally and cut open the inside of the man’s palm. In an attempt to spill the blood of another man to soothe his pain, he had only brought more pain upon himself; spilling his own blood instead. “This isn’t justice. We’re better than this.”
“Save your anger for the enemy.” Captain America spoke sincerely yet affirmatively. A voice that could motivate and inspire. A sound that was the rally cry for the many soldiers of his nation. The American Way; which involved delivering the emotionally hurt assailant to the authorities. Yet, Samir, had another option in mind; speaking from behind the Captain.
“Are you going to… Aww, Hey man, Listen—Just let him go, okay?” Passing by the hero who had protected his life, he knelt down next to the mourning attacker; completely putting behind him that this man had just, no less than a minute ago, tried to take his life.“I’m sorry about—Jenny. She was your daughter?”
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]We’re going to make it through this—
We, the people. [/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
As the two began to reconcile their problems, Captain America silently and gracefully walked away from the scene. Down the road. Shield in hand. Back on his way. Even as remnants of dust and smoke drifted about, they couldn’t disturb the sight of several American flags hanging down from nearby windows, rooftops, and streetlamps.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]United by a power that no enemy of freedom could begin to understand.
We share—
We are—
The American Dream. [/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
You’re part of the bomb now.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
The thick, grey, omniscient, and overwhelming cloud of smoke encompassed the devastation about. Steel and iron pillars, jagged and torn, protruded up and out of the ground. Raised high, propped about by rubble. Concrete, rock, plaster, and smoldering ash laid about the scene, on the ground; it was the ground. Every inch of the area was littered with debris. Mounds upon mounds of it. Pilled atop each piece. The destruction was as one; the dust in the air and the rubble on the ground.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]And somewhere in the world –
A handful of men with famished eyes sit around a radio –
Or a telephone.
Twenty minutes –
Four thousand murders later –
They praise God for the blood that stains their hands.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Through the barely visible screen of smoke and dust, a lone figure could be scene walking about the devastation. Searching the surroundings. Digging through the carnage. Working through the plight and danger around him. Mournfully seeking, yet not once abandoning hope. A black silhouette in a sea of grey; blocking out the clear sky high above. The dust was everywhere. High. Low. All around. In his face. Brushing past his hands. Smoke. Ash. Particles. All smoldering free in the air. Yet, he worked through the hardship. Still persevering. Still looking for survivors. One man among many.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Oh, God–
How could this happen here?
We’ve got to be strong–
Stronger than we’ve ever been.
If we lose hope here–
Bury our faith in this darkness–[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Steve Rodgers, dressed in loose fitting blue jeans, work boots, a white t-shirt, working gloves, and a paper-thin mask over his mouth, continued on looking for any signs of life at ground zero of what was once the famous World Trade Center.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Then nothing else matters.
They’ve won.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Heaving a medium sized slab of concrete off to his side, with smaller pieces of shrapnel falling down as he put it away, his eyes became filled with determination has he looked down the twisted and coarse opening he uncovered.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]This time–[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Steve desperately reached his bloodstained glove forward, through the grey dust and into the darkened hole.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]This time–
Let it not be–[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
His fingers came short a few inches from the limp arm that draped across the ruble; the rest of the body trapped beneath. His heart sank as his gaze donned on its cold and unmoving fingertips. His blue eyes turned to sorrow.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Too late.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Picking himself up and away from hole before him, Steve hung his head low to his chest. His eyes were closed, taking a moment to himself in the wake of the tragedy around him. All those lives around that were lost; who huddled in the dark. Trapped. While a fire raged above their heads. Faces pressed against broken walls that locked them in. Clawing at the cold earth until it grew too hot to touch. And when there was nothing left to breathe there in the dark, they died. Steve reached his arm up, wiping the sweat off his face as dust clung against his perspiration; removing his mask as he took a breather.
“You have to sleep.”
A voice came through the smoke; belonging to a fireman who searched along the destruction along with Rodgers.
“I slept yesterday.” Steve replied back, before silently returning to his downward gaze from before. The curious fireman paused at his response; realizing that sometimes silence was the best response. Giving the man a few more moments to himself before asking another question.
“Where were you? When–”
“I wasn’t here.” Steve spoke before the other could finish. He knelt down back towards the hole he had cleared in front of him; his heart gaining weight as he began to speak more on the subject. “I run in the mornings. It’s a good feeling—when everybody’s on the street, running to work—”
Pausing, in speech and actions, he ceased clearing wreckage; turning his head subtly over his shoulder to speak to the firefighter behind him. “I saw a man and a woman—when I’d run here from the park.”
His voice was the only visible sign of the feelings he withheld.
“They jumped.” His sight drifted in thought. “Holding hands.”
Putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder before he could continue anymore, the fireman spoke. “I’ll get a stretcher.”
Upon his return, a simple cloth and rod stretcher underarm, Steve spoke upon his entrance as other crewmen worked about around them. “Have you seen the news?”
“Too much of it.” The fireman spoke as he set the stretcher on the ground; beginning to respectfully move the body on top of it.
“Do they know, yet?” Steve inquired.
“Oh, they know – but they’re still calling him a suspect. They say there’s no evidence, yet. They say they want to be sure.”
“We have to be sure.” Steve spoke as he helped cover the victim’s corpse with the stretcher’s blanket. “This is war.”
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Is this the face of your Great Satan?
Is this your offering to your God?
Your worship?
Your prayer?
Butchers—[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
All around, numerous police officers, firefighters, and volunteers rummaged through the devastating abyss; all the while Steve Rodgers joined in as he moved debris back and forth into nearby collection bins.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Tell the children this is a holy war.
But we’ve seen what stands behind you.
Heard them screaming open.
The gates of hell.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Through the grey dust, a confident man in a closed trench coat stormed through the scene; approaching Steve Rodgers. A large cloth satchel in his gloved grasp with a stern grimace on his unshaved face; accompanied by a black eye patch over his left eye.
“Thought I’d find you here.” Fury spoke; staring down at Steve he returned to the gesture.
“Where should I be?”
“Halfway to Kandahar, by now.”
The director of S.H.E.I.L.D. tossed the satchel in his grasp through the air in Steve’s direction; who caught it effortlessly with both hands.
“You can suit up when we’re in the air.”
Steve overlooked the weighted bag in his hands, which held an everyday familiarity in his eyes, before setting it down and away on the ground beside him in defiance; refusing Nick Fury’s orders as he looked back with determination.
“Oh—I’m sorry, Rodgers—was that too subtle for you?” Fury approached quickly, getting directly in Steve’s face while raising his tone. “Grab that gear and get moving!” Yelling blatantly to in front of him, he poked his index finger in Steven’s soiled and dust covered t-shirt. “I need you. Now.”
At that instant, Steve’s eyes shot wide with anger as his gloved hands shot forward into Fury’s chest; grabbing him by his loose lapels as he lifted the S.H.I.E.L.D. super spy off the ground. With his enhanced strength, Steve swung the object of his anger around; slamming Fury’s back into a protruding concrete slab; pinning him up against it. The assault was so jarring, that the signature eye patch that the S.H.I.E.L.D. director wore shifted and rustled out of place on his face.
“You need me? Look around—” With a rarely heard ferocity in his voice, Steve barked at Nick Fury; a scowl donning on his forehead as he looked into his good eye. “They need me. The ones who might have five minutes of breath or blood left before they die.”
“You go be a hero, Fury.” Releasing his hold of the man before him, Steve Rodgers turned his back to Nick Fury before scooping the parcel off the ground and walking away; not once looking back. “I’ve got work to do.”
“All right soldier—” Nick readjusted his loose eye patch back into position with a simple push from one hand “Back to the trenches.”
Knowing better than to try and provoke the super soldier any further, he parted ways with Steve; walking the opposite direction as he called back over his shoulder. “Do what you have to do.”
Later on, as night began to dawn on the city that never slept, Steve Rodgers walked the dust and soot covered streets of Manhattan; the roads and sidewalks void of life as sections were barricaded off with hazard lights and police tape. A grey mist of smoke still flooded the nearby surroundings as he continued to walk away from the wreckage; silently thinking to himself as the large satchel rested strapped over his right shoulder and against his back.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Yesterday—
This was another world. [/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
He stopped, taking a moment to himself as he let loose a stress withheld sigh; looking across the street adjacent to him. An abandoned bicycle lay restless on its side, as he began to remember what the neighborhood was like less than twenty-four hours earlier. A time when he would jog through it in the mornings; passing by citizens as they lived their daily lives. On their way to work. Enjoying the day. Meeting a friend. Not a carefree life, but a pleasant one. A father teaching his daughter how to ride a bicycle. A local hotdog vendor making his way. An elderly couple on a midday stole. But not anymore.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Yesterday—
When the sun could still shine—
On us.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Steve closed his eyes, the memories bittersweet, as he swung the bag he carried forward. Flipping the satchel open, he reached down inside and slid halfway out a large and magnificent circular object. As his fingers ran across its rim, it faintly echoed a metal sheen. A red ring encompassed outer area on the item’s flat surface, followed by a white ring, another red, and then a blue circle in the center; a white star placed firmly inside of it. A well known shield and symbol to the country it protected. Steve’s eyes nearly seemed to shimmer with tears as he took his gaze up from what he held in his hands; staring at the sky behind him. Where the iconic towers use to stand high up in the sky now remained a monstrous pillar of smoke and dust; ascending to the heavens.
Afterwards, walking down the streets through the local market, Steve could see a local citizen of Arabian decent standing by himself up the road. His white, buttoned up, long-sleeved shirt was undone at the color; with a white towel draped over his right shoulder. Half of his shirt was untucked as he walked to the street corner; his hands in his pockets. A mournful and sorrowful expression filled his clean shaven face, his short hair was a distraught mess as a result of the recent tragedy. He silently walked to himself, as a group of three suspicious men emerged from the local bar behind him; a look of suspicion and malice on their faces.
“It’s kind of late—” Steve couldn’t help but say as he approached the quiet man. “Maybe you shouldn’t be out by yourself.”
“I know what time it is. And I know where I am.” The man replied in defense as Steve passed by; his eyes filled with stress as
he snapped back. “I live here. My name’s Samir, not Osama. And my father was born on this street—”
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]Tough kid.
Born here.
Raised here.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
Steve couldn’t help but feel concerned for the man, Samir, as he walked between the silently aggravated men, who watched in return. Their eyes were on the lone man, walking about his business in his own neighborhood. It probably wasn’t first, nor would it be his last, hint towards attempted discrimination. Steve meant well, he always did, but within the atmosphere of sorrow and grief did tension naturally arrive.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]This doesn’t matter.
Not tonight.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
A blade shimmered in the fading light, held in the hand of one of the three men who approached Samir. In a white hooded sweatshirt, he rushed up from behind, knife raised, calling out subtly. “Killed her—”
Samir whipped himself around, a look of expression on his face before the attacker cried out again. “Killed my Jenny—”
A fire burned in the assailant’s eyes as Samir’s turned to fear upon viewing the knife before him. As tough as he had claimed to be, the man was defenseless against an armed man; who could do nothing more but recoil in horror. The anger in his voice elevated as he swung the weapon toward at the innocent man. “You’re gonna pay—” The man cried out with malice as he stabbed his blade forward with malicious intent.
Yet no blood was spilt, as the knife’s blade shattered upon contact against an adamantium shield. The blade cracked and split apart as it crashed against the red, white, and blue symbol.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0] We’ve got to be stronger than we’ve ever been.
Or they’ve won.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
A figure, donned in the colors of the nation he swore to protect, seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Red boots and gloves. Chain mail donned on his chest; a white star over his heart. The wings of freedom flew vigilant on the sides of his head; a capitol ‘A’ on his forehead. His appearance seemed to shimmer a golden glow behind his posture; naturally from the active streetlamp that shined down overhead. There, in full costume, stood Captain America between the attacker and his would-be victim. With his shield in his left arm, his stance was firm as he looked down on the troubled man; the disturbed citizen fell on his knees shortly after.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]We can hunt them down.
We can scour every bloodstained trace of their terror from the Earth.
We can turn every stone they’ve ever touched to dust, and every blade of grass to ash.
And it won’t matter.[/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
“I—I—” The man pleaded as the lose of loved ones accompanied with shame of what he had done filled his eyes.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]We’ve got to be stronger than we’ve ever been—
As a people. As a nation.
We have to be America.
Or they’ve one. [/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
“Cap?” The man began to plead, unable to explain his actions. Breaking down at the scene. Speechless as to find a reason for the hate inside of his heart; but coming up empty.
“You’ve lost someone.” The Captain said.
“Jenny.” The man replied with a soft tone and a heavy heart. “Cap, I, I—”
“I understand. You want justice.” Captain America reached forward and overturned the man’s hand, which held the blade previously. The hilt had split. The blade inside had shattered internally and cut open the inside of the man’s palm. In an attempt to spill the blood of another man to soothe his pain, he had only brought more pain upon himself; spilling his own blood instead. “This isn’t justice. We’re better than this.”
“Save your anger for the enemy.” Captain America spoke sincerely yet affirmatively. A voice that could motivate and inspire. A sound that was the rally cry for the many soldiers of his nation. The American Way; which involved delivering the emotionally hurt assailant to the authorities. Yet, Samir, had another option in mind; speaking from behind the Captain.
“Are you going to… Aww, Hey man, Listen—Just let him go, okay?” Passing by the hero who had protected his life, he knelt down next to the mourning attacker; completely putting behind him that this man had just, no less than a minute ago, tried to take his life.“I’m sorry about—Jenny. She was your daughter?”
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]We’re going to make it through this—
We, the people. [/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
As the two began to reconcile their problems, Captain America silently and gracefully walked away from the scene. Down the road. Shield in hand. Back on his way. Even as remnants of dust and smoke drifted about, they couldn’t disturb the sight of several American flags hanging down from nearby windows, rooftops, and streetlamps.
[shadow=red,down,0][shadow=blue,up,0][glow=white,8,0]United by a power that no enemy of freedom could begin to understand.
We share—
We are—
The American Dream. [/glow][/shadow][/shadow]
4vA]^#PG#IN-7#ST-7#SP-7#DR-7#EP-7#FS-1