Work Text:
𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝟿𝚝𝚑, 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟺, 𝙽𝚎𝚠 𝚈𝚘𝚛𝚔
His knees ache and wobble. But he doesn’t stop. His hands are sore and bleeding. But he doesn’t stop. His chest is heaving, slow strained breaths, lungs stained from inhaling smoke and ash. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t have a second to waste. He’s already too late. He finally stops, crouching down and lifting a piece of rubble from the wreckage, he sees a hand peeking out, thank god, maybe, this time, this time, let it not be… too late. His outstretched hand gains no answer, he wants to scream and cry and do something to make this pain hurt just a little less. But there is no cure for this, no pill or injection that could wash away this type of agony. He rises up, lifting his face mask off and wiping the sweat off his brow. Footsteps approach behind him, his instincts are useless and dull he stays still.
“You have to sleep.”
His eyes remain fixed on the hand jetted out of the rubble. They’re sleeping forever now, a luxury he does not have. “I slept yesterday.”
He turns his gaze to the firemen, the man looks tired, but they both know the work is far from over.
“...Where were you when–.”
“I wasn’t here.” There’s a certain callus in his voice, a type of hate so raw and pure you would expect it to be directed at someone, but of course, its pointed at himself. A million could’ve’s, should’ve’s, and would’ve’s run through Sam’s mind. All hinging on the singular possibility, that if he had indeed been here, things would’ve gone differently. "I saw a woman, when I'd run through here from the park. Had the most perfect hair you ever saw. Used to joke that she just rolled out of bed like that…. Hairs finally out of place.”
“I'll get a stretcher..”
“Have you see the news? The man lungs the stretcher over, his gaze tilts up to Sam, a knowing look of regret.
“Too much of it.”
“Do they know yet?”
“Oh they know. But they're still calling the mutie a suspect. They say they want to be sure.”
Same cuts a look at the man, people are going to be afraid. “We have to be sure. This is war.”
𝚃𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢
The helicopter whirs and shakes, Sam sits, unmoving even with the turbulence. He's used to it by now. But he'll never get used to that musk. He looks up to Fury, on opposite side of the cabin. The man smelled of burnt alcohol and gunpowder. Even when the rain poured, that scent never left him. The Shield feels heavy, he's been taking it off his back more often. It rests, leaning on the bench, he stares at it. He wonders, if it could talk, would it approve of him? Or would it be disappointed. Fury clears his throat as he dangles something in front of Sam. “Dogtags?”
“Cattag. Casualty Awareness Tracking. It'll tell us if you’re dead.”
“...An entire town?”
“Not much of one, populations barely six hundred. But yeah. They're not all hostages in the terminal sense, we figure half of em are hunkered down in their basements if they have a lick of sense.”
“And the rest?”
“Where would you round up hostages, in a small town on Easter Sunday?”
Fury hands him the Cattags, for something so small they have an odd amount of weigh to them.
“We've got video, that madman wanted us to know what a military extraction would get us. He's got em wrapped up like Christmas. We couldn't spit into that church without hitting a trip wire. He's got bounding fragmentation minds, looks like knockoffs of the PDMs our special forces use.”
“What does he want?”
“If no one sets them off they'll still dentonate, self destruct–”
“Four hours after arming, that gives us two hours…. What does he want.” Fury looks up like he almost doesnt want to tell Sam, but finally he concedes.
“You.”
Sam stands up, dropping the Cattag on the floor. He turns to Fury, letting himself fall out of the helicopter. “Let’s give em what they want then.”
FWOOM
He soars into the burning city, it's a smalltown, located in a part of Iowa you can barely pronounce. The rain came down hard, but it wasn't enough. If God was crying tears for the hostages, it would be a flood. No. He was crying tears for the men who were about to meet Justice. Don't let the enemy choose the battlefield or The time of engagement. Don't let the enemy anticipate the strength or direction of your attack. Don't let the enemy see you coming. Strike without warning. Never let the enemy bait you into walking into a trap. This monster is a Strategist, already forcing Sam to violate half the tenets of classical warfare. Before he's even seen the battlefield. His boots finally touch the ground. And as the familiar smell of blood and charred flesh hit his nostrils, as the fire dances in his eyes, almost as if to taunt him. He knows one truth. This is war. But it's never the wars that burn and bleeding and die. It's the people. His head turns to a shattered bicycle. A child, playing on a Sunday morning. Never even saw the mine. But they're not here. There's no blood on the bike or even on the ground, so maybe, just maybe he's not too late. He starts sprinting toward a car, its damaged but maybe they're inside.. Please, this time, this time let it not be too late. He peers inside. Empty. His teeth grit and every muscle in his body is screaming. He reaches behind his back, pulling his Shield on. He tightens the straps around his arm, harder and harder. He needs to feel just a fraction of the pain these people felt. Because today it matters that he's here. It's going to make a difference. Today, there's hope.
As he bolts through the concrete and mud he can barely keep a train of thought, instead he’s focusing on avoiding the mines, dozens of them strone across the ground, as he moves further into the town he starts to notice something, something that shouldn’t be possible. Parachutes, attached to the mines. Someone spun these out of a jet, which should be impossible to do three hundred miles into American Airspace, hell, Sam can barely go a day without getting the occasional check-in from control towers while he’s in the air. So how did this go undetected? He didn’t have time to ponder though, there was work to be done, and he had found his first target. Eyes trailed up to a 2 story building, being met with the unmistakable sight of the end of a rifle poking out of the edge. Two birds with one stone, get out of the minefield and take out the sniper. His pack gives him a single burst to rise up to the roof. “Sorry fella’s but I’m in a hurry.” Two men, he had the element of surprise, but he just couldn’t help himself. BAM. The shots start rolling in, he’s used to it by now. Frankly, he’s been shot at so many times he’s begun to laugh with he sees the barrel of a gun. He charges forward, tilting his shield at just the right angle too..
“AGH”
The bullet flies into the second man's gun exploding it instantly. The heat from the gun and the light of the explosion will keep him occupied for just long enough. He rolls, then like a spring, kicks back up into the firsts jaw knocking him out instantly. He elbows the second man sending him teetering off the edge. Sam quickly grabs him by the collar. “Careful, that fall wouldn’t kill you, but those mines on the other hand…”
“Risking your life? For those mutants?”
The man says it with such disgust in the back of his throat, like a rising bile of hate. Does he even know why he despises them? Sam winches at first, then the pity rolls in. Fury said nothing about mutants being here, and frankly, it didn’t matter to Sam, lives were at stake whichever way you cut it. “I’d risk my life for anyone in danger. And fortunately, that includes you.” Sam throws him back onto the roof, he’d hope the man would atleast reconsider, but of course, he tries to pull a gun. In response? He’s met with vibranium to the head. He hears marching approaching, someone must have signaled. Wings stretch out as Sam hovers infront of them. The marching stops. His teeth grit, and his scowl darkens. Are they afraid? They should be, they’ve been allowed to fester hatred for too long. The dream is dying and Captain America cannot allow that. “CMON!” Sam screams out, they seem to share his sentiment, charging at the Captain.
If anyone is hiding nearby, in barred-up stores or in basements. The only thing they can hear is bullets firing and bones crushing.
BOOM
Someone must have tripped on a bomb. Dammit. It takes Sam exactly 5 minutes to regain consciousness. His ears are bleeding, there’s spranel in his abdomen. But none of this makes him stop, for even a moment. 30 Minutes. That’s all the time he has left to save these people and to save his belief in the dream. War is hell. Sam has seen to much of it, and because of that, he knows this. War is coming. But not with a country, for land or money. But for the heart of the nation, for the heart of the people. He and everyone else is going to have to make a choice very soon. To succumb to fear, to doubt and blind hatred. Or to take the leap into the unknown, to have hope. When the fires are burning, and the rubble is falling, you have no time, no time to think or to ponder on whats right or whats wrong. There is only time to act. And act he shall. Sam flys up to the roof of the church, knocking out the sniper. He leaps down landing in front of the entrance. His shield follows with him, meeting 2 guards before returning to Sam. He walks the steps, thinking to himself, a somewhat cynical thought, hostages, in the place where God is supposed to be closest to us. And yet he isn’t helping. Or maybe he is, and Sam is just his chosen tool.
KRACK
The door swings open. Sam stops in his tracks as he looks upon the web of tripwires. His gaze slides up to the podium, the man of the hour, the crackpot who’s holding a city hostage, and who’s holding a child infront of the barrel of gun.
“Captain America. America’s sweetheart. I wonder what they would think if they saw you now. Risking your life for a dirty mutant.”
“You got bad intel. There is no mutant.” The man squints at Sam, trying to call his bluff, but he’s not bluffing.
“You’re lying. They said the same thing, but I will find them”
“You’re afraid.” The man's breath hitches, he expected a fight, something easy. But this? Sympathy? He gives no response. Three Minutes. “You lost someone? In the massacre? I get it, you’re angry and afraid. But this isn’t the way. You can’t blame an entire species for something that was out of their control.” The man's gun shakes. Not yet. But soon. Sam grips his shield tighter as he looks to the scared little girl with a gun pressed to her head.
“WHERE ARE THE MUTANT?!”
“There isn’t a single one here.” Two Minutes.
He wonders where the man got his intel from, but frankly, it doesn’t matter, atleast right now it doesn’t. The man points his gun at Sam for a split second. Perfect. His wings shoot out as he blasts towards the man, tackling him out of the stained glass window. They both tumble out, the detonator to the mines dropping out of his grip. Sam has one minute to disarm the mines. The man only needs one second tho detonate them. One touch, one chance. To turn two hundred lives into a cloud of blood and fire and shrapnel. The two practically crawl over each other, exchanging blows and digging their feet into the mud. Sam cracks the man in the jaw, grabbing the detonator and disabling the bombs. His back hits the mud as his exhaustion catches up to him. He’s bleeding from to many places to count. But he has one last job to do. Apparently, before he had arrived the local news station had attempted to get coverage of the situation, they were among the hostages, but with the danger finally passing, they poured out of the building, circling Sam as he got up. He looked to the unconscious man, and his blood ran cold. The man had a cattag around his neck. SHIELD’s Cattags. The reporters questions stopped his train of thought instantly. “Tell the hostages they can leave the church. It's safe now.” He pauses, turning to the camera.
“ I want... I need to say something. To the people. Where I stand. I don't see war. I see hate. I see men and women and children dying. Because Hate is blind. Blind enough for a man to hold an entire city hostage, at the mere mention that someone different that him was here. We have a chance. A call. We've got to be stronger than we've ever been. To show the world what the American Dream can be. We can hunt them down, bar them from our schools, our lives, our country. And it won't matter. We have to be strong. As a people. As a nation. We have to be America. Or hate wins. We're going to make it through this. We, the people. Because we share... no, we are. The American Dream. ”