ArchivedLogs:S.H.I.E.L.D. Reacts

S.H.I.E.L.D. Reacts
Dramatis Personae Clint, Fury, Peggy, Steve
In Absentia	2016-03-28 "You are hell on my blood pressure, Cap."
Location <NYC> SSR Headquarters - Times Square
Fury This corner office is big, bright and airy, which is not cheap to come by in midtown Manhattan. On one side, a huge glass desk sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Times Square. The far corner has a leather couch, a coffee table, a liquor cabinet and a sideboard, but the rest of the floor space was left open between bookshelves. Director Fury stands, facing the glass window and not Steve. He has shed his long black coat and wears a black turtleneck over black jeans. His jaw has been working silently for a while, and when he finally speaks it's in a tight, controlled staccato. "I expect recklessness from you. I expect you to do things your way. I expect you to do so without asking my leave." He turns around slowly, scarred brows furrowing, his eye fixing balefully on Steve. "But storming a U.S. military facility with that goddamned loose cannon Jackson Holland?" Steve is standing at attention, still, dressed in a lightweight plaid button-down of green, blue, white and purple and khakis. "Honestly, Colonel," his reply sounds far less formal than his stance, "he's just as predictable as I am. And you're angry you didn't see it coming." "You've got some nerve." Fury lifts one hand, rubbing at his temple with thumb and forefinger. "You /know/ I got no love for Prometheus or the fallout from it. If you'd come to me with that information, I could have gotten those people out, /quietly/ --" His mouth twists to one side, half a grimace. "-- eventually. You are hell on my blood pressure, Cap." He shakes his head slowly. "Still. You saw it done, God help us all." Coulson Even the locker rooms at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ are luxurious and over-engineered. There are separate shower stalls, sleek and black-tiled, with huge rainwater showerheads. There are always fresh towels in special bays that keep them warm. The lockers have brass nameplates instead of numbers, and no combination dial -- no obvious locking mechanism of any sort, actually, save for a smooth black panel that responds to touch. Steve has stripped down to his underwear and is pulling his uniform from the locker. His left side is still bandaged and several deep bruises mark his torso, but his movements do not seem hindered the lingering injuries. The mirror on the inside of his locker door reflects the black pinstripe-suited man leaning against the bank of lockers behind him. "...anyway, the Director may be angry, but he's got your back," Coulson is saying. "Politically speaking, this should actually cement S.H.I.E.L.D.'s position, since it clearly demonstrates that the military is in no way qualified to handle mutant issues." Steve pulls on a long-sleeve baselayer and levels a somewhat unimpressed look over his shoulder. Lifts one eyebrow just a touch. Coulson blushes "Oh, but what I actually came here to ask you about was the /uniform/ you wore on that raid, which definitely resembles the winter '44 suit, but I was wondering..." Clint The S.C.A.P.E. (Simulated Combat And Practice Environment) is reconfiguring itself to the parameters requested, a process that take a few minutes and which many agents enjoy watching. So Clint and Steve wait on a balcony that overlooks the arena (though separated from it by ballistic glass) while partitions rise out of the floor, walls, and ceiling, meeting and joining to form the rudimentary shape of an urban street sandwiched between shops. Steve is wearing his S.H.I.E.L.D.-designed uniform, lighter and more high-tech than anything Howard Stark ever made for him. He sits, not quite watching the room below change, but not exactly ignoring it, either. He has his shield braced between one hand and the floor, and slowly rolls it back and forth. Across from him, Clint is perched on the table itself, his combat attire almost entirely black: an armored vest and close-fitting trousers with many pockets. He has his quiver is slung across his back, and is tweaking with his bow at the moment. Neither has spoken, and the first voice to break the silence is the computer's, confident and feminine, with a trace of the Received Pronunciation. "Configuration complete. Training program 113A ready. You may enter the S.C.A.P.E." The same words show up on a LCD display mounted at the top of the window. Clint's dark brown eyes linger for only a moment on Steve. Then he dons his goggles. "Shall we?" Sharon Steve is on his way out of the team's suite when he finds his path suddenly barred by a small but solid blonde. She's wearing a slim gray pantsuit and looks remarkably put together considering they just finished training. Her hair is still wet from the shower. "With all due respect, Sir," she says, cool blue eyes holding his, "you were out of line. Your participation in that raid lends legitimacy to a completely inappropriate avenue of seeking justice. That kind of action /hurts/ the cause of mutant rights --" "If freeing two hundred and fifty people politicians would rather sweep under a rug damages 'the cause'," Steve says, eyes narrowing slightly, his stance dropping just a fraction, "then maybe the cause is off-track." His shoulders tighten, his hands clenching into fists and then unclenching very deliberately. "And if you have a problem with how I roll, you are welcome to get the hell off my team." When he continues on his way this time, she steps aside. Trip It's a little bit late for lunch, and the cafeteria is less than half-full. Steve's table is beside a window with a commanding view of midtown, ringed with six chairs, but he has it all to himself. His tray is laden with sweet potato hash, lentil soup, a bowl of mixed fruit, and a tall protein shake. Another tray lies empty beside it. Trip peels off from the end of the buffet line and makes straight for him. He's wearing a buttercup yellow dress shirt, sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, and black slacks. He stops beside the table, straight and tall, as if he'd just as soon stand at attention if he weren't carrying his lunch tray. "Mind if I join you, Cap?" Steve looks up at him. Down at the empty table around him. Sweeps his hand in broad welcome. "Sure. Hasn't been much competition for my company today." "Thank you, Sir." Trip sits down across from him. "And I got no problem with your company. Or the company you keep." Peggy Steve's footfalls are dragging as he steps out of the elevator into the crowded lobby. It's quitting time, and agents in suits crowd the normally austere, empty floor on their way out. There is one woman standing in the middle of all the bustle, unmoving. She's small and elderly, but holds herself tall, wearing a gray houndstooth jacket and a long pink skirt, silky white hair cascading over her shoulders. Steve stops short when he sees her. Bites his lower lip. Grips the strap of his shoulder bag. But then he continues on, striding up to her. "Peggy," he says. "Steve." She unclasps her hands from each other and lifts one as if to rest it on his chest, though she stops short. "I'm so sorry." "Don't." He closes his eyes. Hangs his head. "Please. I..." She steps forward and wraps her frail arms around him. "You reckless, foolish man. Do you know how terrified I was?" He nods. For all his strength, he's leaning on her a lot. "I know, Peggy. But I had to do it." "Yes, you did." She cups his chin in her hand. "And I'm proud of you for it."