Thread: Reasons To Live(Avengers)Moon/Lady

Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America was in the Gym. He was almost always in the Gym, so long as there weren't other people in there anyway. The last thing he wanted was to interact with some childlike newbie with a bright eyed view of the world and hero worship in his eyes. It didn't help that Steve had once been that guy. And then the truth had set in. He scowled, punching harder, hitting faster. Remembering thought he didn't want to. The sound of guns cracking, bombs exploding, the high pitched screams of death and the pathetic frightened whimpers. The sounds of flesh hitting flesh as Soldiers fought for their lives with fists when their ammo ran out. The smell of blood, like warm copper. The scent of smoke, of burning flesh, of gun oil and body sweat. Watching the blood and dirt mix into a red mud that stained everything it touched even after you washed it off the mix never really washed off no matter that no one else could see it. He remembered the feeling of flesh under his knuckles, the crack of bones, the way a person looked, surprised almost, after they where shot just before they died. He snarled and threw another punch, blinking when he hit nothing but air. He had broken another bag, sending at across the floor. He wasn't even winded yet, wasn't tired. He was never tired. He didn't sleep, couldn't sleep because every-time he closed his eyes he remembered. He sighed, leaving the broken bag where it laid and headed over to get a new one. He didn't bother cleaning up after himself anymore, what was the point? He lifted the bag with one hand and hooked it onto the chain and steadied the swinging back with his hand before glancing at the clock. He wasn't hungry yet, but he rarely was these days. He typically existed on energy drinks and energy bars and coffee. He knew someone would be down soon. His last 'babysitter' hadn't come back after Steve threw him into a wall. He'd gone through eight of them now. It was better this way, don't get attached. Then no one can be hurt when you where gone, then he couldn't be hurt when they died or left. It was better this way. He started punching the bag again, not even looking up an hour later when the door swung open, the familiar clicking shoes of Maria Hill sounding in the cement floor of the Gym. You got a new sitter for me? Steve demanded, wrinkling his nose. His 'assistants' where supposed to keep him centered, stable, out of depression and keep him from going into culture shock. None of them where doing a very good job. Everything Steve looked at reminded him that he wasn't in his own time anymore. Every sound reminded him of everything he had lost, or worse, made him remember the blood and fighting and loss that, for him, was only a month ago at the most. So many people seamed to think he should just be over it. I had been seventy ears after all. Seventy years of nothing but the occasional dream of screaming, of blood. He sighed and turned to face his new sitter and blinked. Well that was new. They where learning after all. They had given him a woman, who he wouldn't hit, throw through walls or 'accidentally' punch the bag into. No. Steve decided, as he always did, turning his back on them and resuming his pummeling of the back, Mariah sighing. i'm sorry. He's always like this. Maria informed the woman. if you'll follow me, i'll give you the full mission briefing. what, she doesn't even know she's my new babysitter? Steve asked. she knows she's going to be assisting you. babysitter. Steve. Maria said, voice sharp as the crack of a whip. Steve didn't flinch and didn't turn around. She had nothing on Sarah Rogers.