milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Steve is looking very serious today; he's got newspapers, a map, and graph paper spread out in front of him, enough of it to take up an entire table. If one looks closely, the papers are all detailing the 'retirement' of Captain America, the map is of a several-storied building, and the graph paper is covered in doodles, scribbles and plans.

He looks like he could use some distraction.

Tiny Tags: Rojhaz, Adrian Shephard, Scaramouche, Hey Arnold, and Zexion.

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Shortly: "You may. He is assisting with a revolution on my own world."

"Oh."

It's ... difficult... to think of anything to say beyond that.

Although it does leave Shephard wondering, as his eyes drift down to the map again, just exactly what some of those markings signify...

Killing soldiers is part of why they need Gordon Freeman. He isn't going to apologize for that.

He will answer questions if asked, however.

There are moments that Shephard does not admit to when he takes an honest look at his situation and feels himself to be seriously and profoundly alone. This is one of those moments.

But moments pass, that's their nature, so he nods and clears his throat. "Unrelated, sir: just what sort of grace period does this place give on the tabs? I had about thirty dollars in my wallet when I got here and somehow I don't think my Visa card's worth much any more."

"I am probably not the person to be asking," he says, apologetically. "Someone is covering mine."

He does, however, lay down his pen and turn to Shephard. "I'm sorry for your loss, Corporal."

Shephard bites his lip a moment. "Sir," he says, "thank you, sir; but Black Mesa's kinda small compared to everything else that's happened since then back home. I got bigger things to worry about than that."

"Such as?" He knows a little about Gordon's world, but not as much as he should.

"Well, sir, for starters, I got shoved into some kind of suspended animation or somethin' after Black Mesa," Shephard says. "One minute I'm yelling at the son of a bitch who's doing it to me, the next I'm opening my eyes somewhere in the middle of some kind of a forest I don't recognize, and when I finally manage to find me some people, they tell me it's 2021 and Earth got conquered by even more aliens sixteen years back."

Suspended animation gets a wince out of him.

"It's difficult readjusting to a time that's not your own. Trust me, I understand. And now you're fighting the aliens?"

"So far it's more that I've been survivin', sir," says Shephard. "Tryin' to find my way to somewhere with more'n about three or four people in it, and keepin' the civilian woman I found along the way safe. We only just made it to an actual Resistance base last night, after a good week or two of wilderness travel."

He whistles, shaking his head.

"So there is an organized underground movement."

"Looks like it, sir. I haven't found out a whole lot about 'em just yet but they seem like the real item."

Even with how Tim Hutchence reacted to his uniform.

"Then I'm sure they can use a trained Marine like yourself."

Lunatics with crowbars are good, too.

Adrian's expression turns faintly bitter for a moment. "Sir, their commander informs me that I might just be the only Marine left alive on the planet."

"Goddamn."

Shephard nods, once.

"They called it the Seven Hours War, sir. I dunno if anybody survived who was wearin' a uniform that day."

"Then it seems to me," he says, slowly. "That you're about the most qualified man on Earth."

To borrow a line from Gordon:

... he hadn't thought of that.

Well, it's true.

"The Marines," he begins, gearing up for a Speech. "Have a long and proud tradition. You can't let that tradition die with you."

Adrian would like to flail right now. He really would. But he's a Marine, and dammit, Marines do not flail.

He draws himself up a little straighter, though (consciously or unconsciously, it's tough to say), and nods. You can't not, when a man like Rogers is talking to you this way.

"From 1775, men have worn and died in that uniform. You will survive, and you will be victorious, and you will live to induct others into that tradition."

Less than twenty-four hours ago he was being pinned to the wall by the forearm of an angry, bereaved man shouting that he had no right to the uniform at all. He didn't expect the pendulum to swing the other way quite so soon, or so sharply. But far be it from him to complain about it.

"Sir! Yes, sir!"

Steve stands up, bone-straight, and salutes.

It's a pity no one's around with a camera. They could use a photograph of Adrian's returned salute in a textbook one day.

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