ArchivedLogs:Vignette - Shield

Vignette - Shield
Dramatis Personae Steve, Fury
In Absentia	2015-11-09 "{Then I'll be there. But on my own terms.}"
Location <NYC> Strategic Science Reserve Offices - Times Square
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. Steve walks in, wearing a brown leather jacket, green, purple, and white plaid flannel shirt, and dark blue jeans. He has his uniform in his hands, and strapped to his forearm is a round shield: white star at its center on a blue field, surrounded in concentric red and white bands. The high-backed chair behind the desk is turned toward the window, and from it comes Nick Fury's voice, speaking impeccable Parisian French: "{Good day, Captain. Why don't you pour yourself a drink, then tell me to what I owe the pleasure of your visit?}" "{Good day, Sir, and thank you.}" Steve's French, by contrast, is colloquial with a heavy Provence accent. His intonation is tight, his words clipped. "{But I did not come here on a social call.}" He sets his uniform down on Fury's desk in a neat stack with the helmet on top, then leans the shield against it. "{Young people!}" Fury's laughter is a short, humorless bark, but he still doesn't turn around. "{No patience at all. That twelve-year Knappogue Castle is quite excellent and distilled in the county of your grandfather's birth, if I'm not mistaken.}" "{I'm tendering my resignation,}" Steve goes on doggedly, "{effective today. If you will not allow this, then I request to be transferred to regular military service.}" "{At /ease,/ soldier. We're not going to force you to stay on some technicality. The war you signed up to fight is over. You're free to go.}" The chair finally swivels to reveal the head of the Strategic Science Reserve. A lean, weathered black man, Nick Fury is nowhere near as large or as strong as Steve, but the man has a presence that cannot be ignored. His head is cleanly shaven, though he wear a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. His left eye is covered with a black eyepatch, which interrupts three long, parallel scars. He wears a black, zippered sweater, black trousers, and a long black leather coat. "{I knew this was going happen sooner or later,}" subtly, his French has changed to match Steve's--less formal, more provincial, "{I just didn't think it would be so soon. What made up your mind?}" "Prometheus." Steve's pale blue eyes fix on Fury's single dark brown one. "{When were you going to tell me, and how were you going to spin it?}" "{Your next briefing, and why don't you stick around to find out?}" Fury rises, looking down at the pile of patriotic red, white, and blue on his gleaming black desk. "{Well, /you/ may not want a drink, I sure do now.}" He walks over to the liquor cabinet and pours himself a generous splash of the Irish whiskey he had recommended earlier. "{Look. Cap. You were in suspended animation for seventy years. You were at war before that, and you're coming back into an epidemic. We wanted to ease you into the present.}" Steve shakes his head. "{I've been awake for weeks, going through rehabilitation and supposedly getting caught up, but you've been telling me half-truths from the very start, if that. I was a part of the propaganda machine, Colonel. I know how this works: you want me to see the world in a way that is convenient to you.}" Fury huffs and takes a long pull on his whiskey as he ambles back to his desk. "{I'm not going to deny having an agenda, but believe me, I am not fan of Prometheus. If it were up to me the bastards in charge of it would all hang. But it's not. The damage is done, and all we can do is move forward.}" "{Move forward into what? You've already made registration compulsory, what's next?}" Steve leans over Fury's desk, his voice carefully schooled into something that /isn't/ shouting. "{Moving mutants into designated housing? Making them wear their registration catagtory on their clothing? Putting them into camps--}" "{That's enough!}" Fury snaps. "{The SSR has nothing to do with any of that. I really don't care what 99% of mutants do. It's the 1% who can destroy this world on a whim I'm worried about.}" "{Then maybe you should take a closer look at your superiors.}" Even so, Steve subsides a little, straightening up. "{You're not afraid I'm not ready for this world; you're afraid I /am/, and that I will come to a different conclusion than you did.}" "{You're wrong about me, Cap.}" But Fury says this mildly enough, sipping at his drink and turning his eye to the midtown skyline. "{But setting me aside, America needs you. The /world/ needs you.}" Steve nods solemnly. "{Then I'll be there. But on my own terms. Thank you for everything you've done for me, Sir. Good bye.}" He catches a very faint smile on Nick Fury's face before he turns on his heel and makes for the door. "Cap." Steve stops, looks back. Fury is crossing the room to him, balancing the shield between his hands as if trying to estimate its weight. "{You should take this,}" Fury says. "{Technically, it belongs to the SSR, but without you it's just a hunk of metal. It'd do a sight more good in your hands than in our vaults.}" He holds it out, raises his eyebrows high. Steve hesitates. Nods. Takes the shield, which seems to rest in his hands perfectly, never awkward despite its shape and size. "{Thank you, Sir.}" He extends his hand. Fury grips it firmly, shakes. "{It was an honor serving with you, Cap, however briefly. Take care out there. It's a crazy world.}" Steve crooks a half smile at that. "{You too, and...I kind of noticed.}"