01, 02 Blinking and finding himself in a derelict garage inside a strange, circular burn mark on the floor is not something Steve Rogers expected today, even given that most of his days tend to go sideways into the strange and extreme. He’s mollified somewhat by the comforting feeling of the shield at his back, even if he’s in civilian clothes: boots, jeans, t-shirt, jacket.
He scouts the garage and diner, then outside it, approaching the Convoy cautiously. He’s calm but alert, wary but not threatening. Every time a new person fails to recognize him or reach for a cellphone, he starts to relax a little more, although the situation is still concerning.
“Where is this?” is the most obvious question to ask. Or you might get, “Who’s behind this?” once he’s learned a little more. And, in cases where he runs into another newcomer who clearly looks like they’ve had a similarly confusing day so far, “Are you all right?”
Outside, he wanders most directly toward an older-model motorcycle, hands reaching for the handlebars before he can really stop them. When he realizes the key in his pocket fits into the ignition… well. Weirder things have (probably) happened.
But it — and several of the vehicles here, it seems — needs a little TLC. So, it’s back to the garage; he doesn’t know much about fixing cars, but he knows motorcycles. Plus, he can offer assistance via a pair of two perfectly good hands.
Also, if your car or van or truck needs lifting to replace a tire? “Oh — let me get that,” he says, sliding his hands under the bumper. Turns out, he can still lift a car like it’s only a minor inconvenience at most, so say hello to your resident human jack.
03, 04 As the storm whips up Steve’s right there, helping to lash vehicles down and crowding people into the garage and diner as the sky grows dark. His shield stays strapped to his back — which turns out to be a good thing, as the huge, dark shapes in the sky star dive-bombing the Convoy.
Then he becomes a shield, diving to cover anyone unlucky enough for a bird to target, which sure is a way to make a first impression. “Sorry!” he shouts over the rising wind, although in truth, he’s not sorry to be crushing someone to the ground if it means avian claws or beak screeched off the shield, rather than rending into skin and bone.
Inside, stations himself by the windows, face practically pressed against them. He’ll say it’s to watch for incoming danger — there’s certainly plenty of it — but as the wind whips up, he drifts to the door. And then out of it and into the driving rain, even as the windows are exploding.
Anywhere flying glass or debris cuts through clothes and skin, dark scales seem to appear as the skin heals. He barely seems to notice, though — he’s too busy… enjoying the storm?
05, 06 The storm finally faces, and feathers start falling from the sky. Steve, still outside and blinking like he’s just woken up, reaches out on instinct and catches one of them.
It melts away the dark, snakelike scales, and he can’t pretend there isn’t some measure of relief — until some of them don’t vanish, but change. Some of the scales on his forearms, his thighs, his cheeks (though he can’t see these) shift instead, shimmering iridescent blue-green in the breaking sunlight, like fish scales.
Well, the best way to not worry about that is to find something to do. He is absolutely available to move debris or salvage anything that can be useful: “Let me help you carry that back to the Convoy.”
Steve Rogers | MCU | Merrow | New Character
Blinking and finding himself in a derelict garage inside a strange, circular burn mark on the floor is not something Steve Rogers expected today, even given that most of his days tend to go sideways into the strange and extreme. He’s mollified somewhat by the comforting feeling of the shield at his back, even if he’s in civilian clothes: boots, jeans, t-shirt, jacket.
He scouts the garage and diner, then outside it, approaching the Convoy cautiously. He’s calm but alert, wary but not threatening. Every time a new person fails to recognize him or reach for a cellphone, he starts to relax a little more, although the situation is still concerning.
“Where is this?” is the most obvious question to ask. Or you might get, “Who’s behind this?” once he’s learned a little more. And, in cases where he runs into another newcomer who clearly looks like they’ve had a similarly confusing day so far, “Are you all right?”
Outside, he wanders most directly toward an older-model motorcycle, hands reaching for the handlebars before he can really stop them. When he realizes the key in his pocket fits into the ignition… well. Weirder things have (probably) happened.
But it — and several of the vehicles here, it seems — needs a little TLC. So, it’s back to the garage; he doesn’t know much about fixing cars, but he knows motorcycles. Plus, he can offer assistance via a pair of two perfectly good hands.
Also, if your car or van or truck needs lifting to replace a tire? “Oh — let me get that,” he says, sliding his hands under the bumper. Turns out, he can still lift a car like it’s only a minor inconvenience at most, so say hello to your resident human jack.
03, 04
As the storm whips up Steve’s right there, helping to lash vehicles down and crowding people into the garage and diner as the sky grows dark. His shield stays strapped to his back — which turns out to be a good thing, as the huge, dark shapes in the sky star dive-bombing the Convoy.
Then he becomes a shield, diving to cover anyone unlucky enough for a bird to target, which sure is a way to make a first impression. “Sorry!” he shouts over the rising wind, although in truth, he’s not sorry to be crushing someone to the ground if it means avian claws or beak screeched off the shield, rather than rending into skin and bone.
Inside, stations himself by the windows, face practically pressed against them. He’ll say it’s to watch for incoming danger — there’s certainly plenty of it — but as the wind whips up, he drifts to the door. And then out of it and into the driving rain, even as the windows are exploding.
Anywhere flying glass or debris cuts through clothes and skin, dark scales seem to appear as the skin heals. He barely seems to notice, though — he’s too busy… enjoying the storm?
05, 06
The storm finally faces, and feathers start falling from the sky. Steve, still outside and blinking like he’s just woken up, reaches out on instinct and catches one of them.
It melts away the dark, snakelike scales, and he can’t pretend there isn’t some measure of relief — until some of them don’t vanish, but change. Some of the scales on his forearms, his thighs, his cheeks (though he can’t see these) shift instead, shimmering iridescent blue-green in the breaking sunlight, like fish scales.
Well, the best way to not worry about that is to find something to do. He is absolutely available to move debris or salvage anything that can be useful: “Let me help you carry that back to the Convoy.”