Steve knows the story as well as the hoarse guard can tell it, by the way it's traveled throughout the trainees and newcomers. Here only a day and he begins to get the feeling that nothing can be kept secret in a place like this. It's why he made friends with the guards overlooking the training grounds, clocked where they wore their blades and how they moved when they sparred. A soldier marking another soldier, a silent sort of sizing up that, to anyone else, would look only like a mildly curious onlooker.
But a metal hand - he hadn't seen anyone like that here, even though the words alone strike a very real and very sharp image. A man dropping from a freight car, the strike of metal unrelentless and ruthless on a falling helicarrier, the firm hug on a battlefield, a friend, turning to dust. It makes his stomach flip sickly in his gut.
Not here. It can't be.
But a few trainees scurry by, abandoning their section of the training grounds, and when Steve looks up, he's sure he's hallucinating. Maybe it's the exhaustion, but he recognizes the cut of the shoulders, the deadpan drawl, and his body moves long before his brain catches up with it. He shoulders his way into the conversation, smiling all easy but there's something tired and tight behind his eyes. ]
Gotta say I don't think any of us are feeling tough these days, fellas.
[ A hand stretches out toward the three guards, disarming, his posture straight but commanding attention. Steve can't look behind him yet, just in case its some trick of the light. But he knows better.
The guard still seems tense, but takes a half step backward when Steve injects himself into the conversation. ]
Summoning's got some of us wound tight. [ A glance back, and that's all it takes. He looks different than he remembers, and for a moment he sort of stutterstops, blinking dumbly for a fraction of a second before he turns back to the guard, whose hand still remains at his blade. ]
yells
Steve knows the story as well as the hoarse guard can tell it, by the way it's traveled throughout the trainees and newcomers. Here only a day and he begins to get the feeling that nothing can be kept secret in a place like this. It's why he made friends with the guards overlooking the training grounds, clocked where they wore their blades and how they moved when they sparred. A soldier marking another soldier, a silent sort of sizing up that, to anyone else, would look only like a mildly curious onlooker.
But a metal hand - he hadn't seen anyone like that here, even though the words alone strike a very real and very sharp image. A man dropping from a freight car, the strike of metal unrelentless and ruthless on a falling helicarrier, the firm hug on a battlefield, a friend, turning to dust. It makes his stomach flip sickly in his gut.
Not here. It can't be.
But a few trainees scurry by, abandoning their section of the training grounds, and when Steve looks up, he's sure he's hallucinating. Maybe it's the exhaustion, but he recognizes the cut of the shoulders, the deadpan drawl, and his body moves long before his brain catches up with it. He shoulders his way into the conversation, smiling all easy but there's something tired and tight behind his eyes. ]
Gotta say I don't think any of us are feeling tough these days, fellas.
[ A hand stretches out toward the three guards, disarming, his posture straight but commanding attention. Steve can't look behind him yet, just in case its some trick of the light. But he knows better.
The guard still seems tense, but takes a half step backward when Steve injects himself into the conversation. ]
Summoning's got some of us wound tight. [ A glance back, and that's all it takes. He looks different than he remembers, and for a moment he sort of stutterstops, blinking dumbly for a fraction of a second before he turns back to the guard, whose hand still remains at his blade. ]
We don't want any trouble here, do we, Buck?