First Person: [Steve examines the watch before tucking it into his pocket and starting off away from the train station. The thought that it might be a communication device doesn't even cross his mind. It's not until he's making his way down a street in the middle of the city and he starts to see people talking into their watches that he thinks to look at it more closely. After situating his shield to lean against a bench, he takes a seat beside it and then flicks open the watch as he starts to press the buttons on the side. He speaks experimentally, not quite sure if it's actually broadcasting or not. He has little enough experience with cell phones that video and text functions are not things that he thinks to look for.]
Hello? This is Captain Steve Rogers, does anybody read me? I'm not sure what happened, but I woke up on a train, and now I'm stuck in a place called Ruby City.
[If only he had some way of contacting SHIELD, it would be much easier to figure out what the hell is going on.]
If someone could tell me when the next train leaves for New York, that would be great.
Third Person: It might not have been the most heroic of deeds. Nobody's life depended upon Steve accomplishing this task, nor did the fate of nations rest upon his shoulders. But even so, sweat beaded on his brow as he worked in the afternoon sun; his arm, much more used to wielding a shield in battle, now moving with repetitive sweeps of a paint brush. The house wasn't derelict, it was just in need of a bit of sprucing up. He'd lived in worse places, but with nothing better to do, it was at least something to keep him occupied. He had never been one to enjoy sitting still for long, even before he had been a soldier.
The strokes he made along the side of the house were careful, because Steve took any job he invested himself in seriously; but they were wide and required no true skill on his part. It was different than painting on canvas--using the medium to bring life to the images in his mind. Certain of his teammates had been surprised to learn that he'd attended art school before he became Captain America, but to Steve, it was just another chapter in his life. During his time in the army there had hardly been much opportunity to sit down and do more than the occasional sketching, but it was still something he enjoyed doing, even if it was more of a hobby these days.
He paused to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, unintentionally smearing a bit of white paint there. When he looked down at his hands, he found them speckled with it as well. The sight triggered a feeling of nostalgia, recalling the days when he'd been a student in New York. Bucky had been alive, and had accompanied him to lessons once in a while. There had been an occasion when a paint battle had occurred, which was the day he was thinking about as he considered the paint currently staining his hands. A sad smile curved his lips for a brief moment, until another memory crept in. A similar occasion, when Bucky had tagged along for a figure drawing class and bemoaned the fact that the female model had been clothed, on December 7, 1941.
Everything had changed after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Young men from all across the nation had clamored to enlist: Steve's friends and classmates, and thousands of strangers. He had longed to join them. To prove himself. To stand up for what was right and good. He was turned away at almost every attempt, but his stubbornness and refusal to give up had eventually paid off.
...If only it had been enough to keep his best friend safe.
Question for you lovely mods: can he have his shield if it was on his person at the time of his kidnapping?
no subject
[Steve examines the watch before tucking it into his pocket and starting off away from the train station. The thought that it might be a communication device doesn't even cross his mind. It's not until he's making his way down a street in the middle of the city and he starts to see people talking into their watches that he thinks to look at it more closely. After situating his shield to lean against a bench, he takes a seat beside it and then flicks open the watch as he starts to press the buttons on the side. He speaks experimentally, not quite sure if it's actually broadcasting or not. He has little enough experience with cell phones that video and text functions are not things that he thinks to look for.]
Hello? This is Captain Steve Rogers, does anybody read me? I'm not sure what happened, but I woke up on a train, and now I'm stuck in a place called Ruby City.
[If only he had some way of contacting SHIELD, it would be much easier to figure out what the hell is going on.]
If someone could tell me when the next train leaves for New York, that would be great.
Third Person: It might not have been the most heroic of deeds. Nobody's life depended upon Steve accomplishing this task, nor did the fate of nations rest upon his shoulders. But even so, sweat beaded on his brow as he worked in the afternoon sun; his arm, much more used to wielding a shield in battle, now moving with repetitive sweeps of a paint brush. The house wasn't derelict, it was just in need of a bit of sprucing up. He'd lived in worse places, but with nothing better to do, it was at least something to keep him occupied. He had never been one to enjoy sitting still for long, even before he had been a soldier.
The strokes he made along the side of the house were careful, because Steve took any job he invested himself in seriously; but they were wide and required no true skill on his part. It was different than painting on canvas--using the medium to bring life to the images in his mind. Certain of his teammates had been surprised to learn that he'd attended art school before he became Captain America, but to Steve, it was just another chapter in his life. During his time in the army there had hardly been much opportunity to sit down and do more than the occasional sketching, but it was still something he enjoyed doing, even if it was more of a hobby these days.
He paused to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, unintentionally smearing a bit of white paint there. When he looked down at his hands, he found them speckled with it as well. The sight triggered a feeling of nostalgia, recalling the days when he'd been a student in New York. Bucky had been alive, and had accompanied him to lessons once in a while. There had been an occasion when a paint battle had occurred, which was the day he was thinking about as he considered the paint currently staining his hands. A sad smile curved his lips for a brief moment, until another memory crept in. A similar occasion, when Bucky had tagged along for a figure drawing class and bemoaned the fact that the female model had been clothed, on December 7, 1941.
Everything had changed after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Young men from all across the nation had clamored to enlist: Steve's friends and classmates, and thousands of strangers. He had longed to join them. To prove himself. To stand up for what was right and good. He was turned away at almost every attempt, but his stubbornness and refusal to give up had eventually paid off.
...If only it had been enough to keep his best friend safe.
Question for you lovely mods: can he have his shield if it was on his person at the time of his kidnapping?