Steve Rogers RP

“This…this is my cat” Neveilla repeated to herself as though attempting to reinforce the notion in her own compromised memory; to set it in some kind of stone in an attempt to ensure that it wasn’t forgotten. “I hope he hasn’t been too much of a bother to you all. Thank you for taking care of him.” she told the man beside her in a manner which was reminiscent of the woman she had used to be. The Neveilla that had dwelled within this building had been an apologetic and nervous woman; frightened of outstaying her welcome and blind to the usefulness of her presence. While she had once upon a time been a member of SHIELD – a position which had of course been rescinded the moment it was discovered just who SHIELD really were – and the X-Men Initiative, she had always struggled to find her place amongst the collective of advanced human beings and so-called ‘superheroes’. Even the fact that she had been a Botanist whose scientific worth had been on a par with Bruce Banner himself had been of little consolation to her. She had felt merely that she had been humoured for the sake of her relationship with Tony Stark.

Which had probably explained in some way why she had thrown herself so heavily into the frey when it came to protecting the remaining citizens of the city after Thanos.

She took a few tentative and unsure steps into the room, once or twice looking back to ensure that Steve hadn’t left her alone again, her eyes scanning the room while trying to drink in as much detail as she could. While the walls were a stark white to match the rest of the uninviting, formal nature of the building, they had been draped with colourul throws containing all manner of interesting Moroccan and Indian patterns. One or two or them still carried gift tags with names attached to them; a Bruce, Natasha and… “Love Tony”? These had clearly meant something to her, and it gave her a pang of guilt to think that she’d forgotten them, even if it hadn’t been her fault.  There were a few framed photographs to accompany the fabrics; most carrying herself in the company of others she didn’t recognise. A slightly greying man in glasses and purple button up shirt, looking awkward and uncomfortable as he posed with her during what looked like some sort of party. Red and black haired women huddled in a small group with her as the red head laughed while holding Basil aloft to ensure he was caught in the shot while wearing what looked to be a mock party hat. Even a picture of the man that accompanied her. A formal, what seemed to be some kind of superhero “staff picture”, where he stood up front in all of his glory. And she stood in the back, small and timid enough to go unnoticed. And the one that confused her most of all. A small framed sonogram picture, that had clearly been torn up before being taped back together. There was a small, red sharpie love heart on the frame in front of it, accompanied by two small words. “I’m Sorry.” While it filled her with questions, she wasn’t entirely sure that Steve would carry answer for her, and so she left them unerred.

While the room couldn’t be accused of being untidy, aside from the obvious items that belonged to the cat beside her, there were scattered remnants that suggested that not only did somebody stay here; for a time they had truly lived her. A pile of books on top of a storage chest that acted as a bedside table, complete with fabric covered lamp and a ceramic flower used to hold cones of incense. A chair set by a desk that had been clearly used as a ‘chairdrobe’ to hold crushed maroon velvet robe, delicate black pyjamas and a collection of bangles that hadn’t found their way back into the jewellery box. Even a small case of CD’s that sat next to a cat sized chesterfield sofa – complete with one or two obligatory scratches – where a spider plant sat in it’s pot on top. It may not have been her home in true terms, but she had clearly tried her best to make it one. Even down to the large ornamental rug that had been thrown down on the floor  to prevent her feet from growing cold on the tile floor. She had always been resistant to the notion of footwear.

Setting her cat down onto the floor again, where he proceeded to brush his bushy tail happily against Steve’s leg – an action he would always use when attempting to let the person know that he was hungry - Neveilla made her way to the side chest after something caught her eye. A framed photograph, carrying a picture of herself being held dear in the arms of a man who laughed with her as he held the camera aloft to capture the moment. She didn’t recognise the man at all, but something stirred inside of her. She furrowed her brow as she carefully lifted the gilded white frame, her hand shaking just a little as she looked closer at the man. A name had been on her lips. Someone she missed terribly, so much so that the physical longing stabbed at her chest and made her grab it, but there was no knife to pull out. It was invisible but real, and the blade was grinding deeper into her as she realised that she didn’t know who she was missing. There was no knight in shining armour to collect her, or if there was, she didn’t know who he was.

“Who is this man?” she asked her companion as she quietly sat down on the bed, a warm and wet nose immediately beginning to sniff and inspect her free hand as Basil trilled beside her in a happy fashion. As far as he was concerned, all was now finally as it should be. Though he had been cared for during his time here – Neveilla had been vigilant in keeping a care diary so she could track her cat’s health and dietary needs, and once this had been found it had provided a useful framework for those charged with his care – it hadn’t been the same. There had been fresh deli meat in his bowl each day – he absolutely refused to eat any ordinary cat food, which had been indulged by a woman who had taken him on at a time when she had nobody else, and so he had become primary target for her love and need to care for another - but his human hadn’t been there to chatter to him while she was working, or cuddle him at night when he forced his way into her arms to steal her body heat. They didn’t know how he liked his food prepared and heated up just so, or how he liked his tail brushed exactly five times before he would get annoyed. They didn’t even know the games he liked to play with his sparkly green mouse.

“How do I know him? I feel like I should know him.”

Maybe the man in her company didn’t know her at all. Didn’t know anything about their relationship, and had simply been tasked with taking care of her given the fact that she had been the only one to be taken directly from this facility’s residents.  

“He hasn’t been a bother at all,” Steve reassures her, smiling at the familiar pressure against his pant legs. “Been pretty intuitive, actually, giving out some comfort here and there.” Not everyone was a cat person, but there were enough people here that there was never a lack of legs to circle through, or a lap to claim when the need emerged.  The cat had been something to take care of for all of them, it’s health and happiness a tangible result of the effort given. In a time when tangible had been sorely lacking, the cat had been a welcome change. 

             Steve follows the cat into the room, letting the animal pull him towards the bed where Neveilla sat. There’s a story in the room, history, and he’d watched her eyes track it in silence, aware of the way they lingered on particular things. 

“That’s Tony,” he tells her softly, easing himself onto the edge of the bed. “Tony Stark.  You were together, for a while. He went into space to fight Thanos, and he’s been gone now for a very long time.” 

Despite the cold that prickled at her skin as she drew her frail and thin arms around her, Neveilla couldn’t be harmed more than she had been in her temporary home within the internment prison of Ryker Island. That had been a new level of cold she had never experienced before, where it felt as though she would never feel warm again. Nothing burned like the cold. But only for a while. Then it penetrated the very depth of you, started to fill you up, and after a while the strength to fight it was gone.

Finding little solace in the night air any longer – it had given her what it could in grounding her, but the sweetness of it she had grown unfortunately accustomed to – Neveilla opened her eyes to take in the visage of the man who had come to greet her off of the plane personally. Where the others had been led off in one weary and exhausted group, she had been offered a personal audience with somebody who seemed to know her. Even if there was no memory for her to cling to herself, she couldn’t quite quell the nervousness of learning what knowledge he held of her. She would ask him when ready, but for now she felt far too drained to fully appreciate what she could learn.

“Why would this place be familiar to me? Do I live here? I don’t…I don’t remember…This doesn’t feel like a home…” It had never truly been home. Not too long before things had reached their worst and Thanos had wreaked his havoc, for both she and Tony, the time spent apart began to feel like simple a time spent in waiting of being together again. So she had sold her flat and brought what little she had with her – her cat, Basil, included – and joined him in his Penthouse at Avengers Tower. She hadn’t had it in her to stay there after Tony had gone missing during the war – they had lost contact with him after he had forced his way onto the spaceship – and so she took a room here at the compound. Did her best to be a productive member of the group in his stead until she had been captured during a fight.

“I…I wanna see the room.Please.”

   “This way,” Steve tells her, taking a couple steps and making sure she was ready to follow him before he started making his way towards the buildings.   The others had already disappeared, triaged and sorted into areas depending on their needs - privacy curtains, a room full of cots, or more isolated rooms for more specialized care. 

             Steve would guess that nowhere feels like home for a lot of people right now, that untethered sensation that comes with loss and trauma had permeated what remained of society. A feeling he wouldn’t wish on anyone, one that he thought he might be able to shake once upon a time. 

   “I don’t know the details, but we know you were here for a bit.” 

The doors open for them as they approach, gliding apart silently. Beyond the doors the lobby is cavernous, but the quickest way from the pad of grass the jet used to the room in question. “If it ever gets overwhelming, we can slow down and take a moment.”  The compound holds all the utilitarian grandeur that it always had, the small robot army that had helped hired hands keep it clean now taking on the bulk of responsibilities and keeping it polished. 

It may have been a cold evening, but to Neveilla this was the first taste of a freedom that she had long been deprived of. Not that she had any memory of how long she had been held in her windowless cell. But the way in which each chill of the night breeze licked at her sun parched skin, the conscious effort she found herself giving to savouring every nuance of it made her believe that it had been far too long. She had no ability to recall lazy afternoon picnics on the lawn with Tony before inevitably being rained out and having to seek soaking wet shelter in whatever pristine car he had brought along with him. Nor could she recall the first tentative meetings  here with his friends when things had begun to grow serious between them and he would bring her along to group exercises.

Even without these memories, this felt like an important place to her. It felt familiar. Like she had found the smallest fraction of herself within the gentle trickle of the river; the soft sway of the grass in the night air; the ethereal glow of the moon highlighting a patch of Sunflowers.

“That feels like something I would have done…jumping in the river….I feel like it’s something I would have enjoyed.” Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it would have been the furthest thing from what she would have enjoyed. But she barely knew herself beyond the anonymous shell she felt herself to be now.

“Why did you bring me here?”

Steve suddenly wishes that he had brought a jacket - so he could offer it to her.    Self-flagellation was one thing, but he didn’t want her to be cold ( or get sick, God forbid ). 

      -- there’s so many answers to that question, and even if he were to be able to find a way to put words to all of them, it might be too overwhelming. 

   “We needed somewhere safe to bring you all,” he says, opting for the most logical one first. “To recover, figure out some options, and help get started on them.” 

     The secondary answer:  “Unlike most of the others, I think you’d call this place familiar. There’s a room I want to show you.  We won’t force you to stay if you don’t want to, but we thought you might find it... comforting.” 

It didn’t escape Neveilla’s notice, the small change in the man’s countenance. Her response had angered him, only she couldn’t quite decide whether the anger was aimed at her for her lack of knowledge; or to her captors for what they had done to cause her to forget. Either way, despite her guarded countenance, she had the urge to apologise.

“I don’t remember that name. I’m sorry.”

Despite her own misgivings, the ivy that acted as a shield around her began to turn brown and whilt, sinking in dry heaps onto the floor around her feet as she – against her better judgement – offered some small benefit of doubt about him. She watched him with interest as he fully turned his head to face her, sitting up on the bench he had placed himself upon moments before. Something about him in this moment struck her as familiar. The motion of his arm? The shape of his hands? The wrinkle of his forehead? She didn’t know. Nor did she have any way to tell whether what she was sensing was a fragment of a memory, a fragment of an idea of a memory, or something her mind, desperate for connection, had created on it’s own. Cautiously she leaned forward and began to stare into his face, searching for something familiar. She didn’t recognise the angle of his chin, the gentle hook of his nose. She didn’t know the slope of his shoulders or the shape of his lips.

At his request, she didn’t offer an answer beyond a slow and cautious movement to her feet. She wrapped her bony arms around herself in a still somewhat protective gesture as she looked him over for a moment before slowly walking off of the plane.

The sensation of her bare feet on the grass, the lung full of clean, cool air was enough for her to pause in her tracks as she savoured their presence. For too long she had been deprived of what others often took for granted. She gently turned her face upwards to face the moon, her eyes closing as she took those quiet moments to simply enjoy the languid lick of the wind against her skin.

Steve opens his mouth to tell her not to apologize - but then he realizes that it likely wouldn’t help the situation. Instead he takes a deep breath, letting the smile come through, a genuine one that reflects encouragement and satisfaction that she’s even attempting to converse with him. It’s a good sign. 

     “Don’t - you have nothing to be sorry for.” 

There’s nothing to hide, and he welcomes the scrutiny of her eyes; he’s not sure what she’s seeing or thinking, but as long as it’s conducive to helping her understand that he’s trying to help... That he holds no ill-will. That he’s here to help. (  all he ever wanted to do was help,  mean something -- )

  It’s a postive sign, that’s she’ll follow him out of here - or, he opts to take it as such. He follows her off the plane, sidestepping as he comes off the ramp, to avoid her person as she stops on the lawn. He sees then that there’s a part of her that knows what she’s been missing, despite whatever lapses in memory she has. That face, that feeling he can see through her body - she’s like a sponge, both understanding and appreciating this sensation.  He’d been so confused when he’d woken up, hadn’t been able to appreciate something like this until his mind had slowed and managed to comprehend. 

            They’re in no rush, have no timeline, and he waits just off the ramp of the jet, delaying his clearance for takeoff until she’s soaked in the chilly air he’d been subjecting himself to not so long ago. The humidity from the river helps cut the severity of chill in his lungs, but it digs deeper into his bones instead.

“You’ve been here before,” he tells her quietly, “Walked along this lawn. There’s even a rumour you were brave enough to jump into the river, but I’m not so sure that’s true.”  It’s just something he heard in ambient chatter, but he hopes that the familiarity isn’t detrimental. “It gets pretty cold.” 

As non-threatening as the man before her was attempting – and almost beginning to feel – to be, Neveilla just couldn’t let go of the notion that this was yet another of General Ross’s mental tests. Such was the extent of the man’s evil when it came to his treatment of his prisoners. The man had lost all semblance of sanity after seeing his beloved daughter and what was left of his family turn to dust before his eyes, and as irrational as it was, had instantly blamed them. Took it to be just another mutant skill he refused to understand.

There was no recollection in her eyes at the mention of “the Avengers”. No flicker to give away the notion of the name meaning anything at all to her. The way the man before her spoke of it made it seem as though she should hold some value to the title. That it had been an importance in her life before the darkness had descended upon her.

At the question of her name, her eyes flicked to her wrist where she had been branded like so many prisoners that had come before her, ostracised and punished for the crime  of simply having unfavourable genetics.

“174517”

She had been baptised; she and her fellow prisoners would carry the tattoo on their left arm until they died.

The operation of branding had been slightly painful and incredibly rapid; they had placed them all in a row once stripped of their clothing, and one by one, according to the alphabetical order of their original names, they were filed past a skilful official armed with a sort of pointed tool with a very sharp needle. This had served as a some sort of twisted initiation: only by “showing one’s number” could a prisoner be allowed to eat. Several days had passed, and not a few kicks and punches, before they became used to showing their arm promptly enough not to disorder the daily operation of their solitary meal time.

In that one moment, with almost prophetic intuition, the reality had been revealed to them; they had reached the bottom. It was not possible to sink lower than that; no human condition was more miserable than that. They had taken away their clothes, their shoes, their personal belongings; if they spoke, the would not be listened to. And if they listened, they would not care.They had even taken away their name: and if they wanted to keep it, they would have to find themselves the strength to do so, to manage somehow so that behind the name something of them, of them as they were, still remained.

While others had the capability to keep firm hold of their names, she herself had been stripped of that privilege once they had begun to violate her mind and use it for their own twisted intentions. They had stripped away whatever they found that couldn’t be of use to them; ensuring that should she ever be returning to humanity, she would be returning incomplete. Neveilla would not be returning.

“174517. That’s my name.” she repeated in a manner that suggested she expected punishment should she not answer swiftly enough.

This time he can’t completely contain the surge of anger; the muscle in his jaw twitches, indignation flaring in his chest.  A number is not a name, but he keeps the words tucked away safely in his head where they can’t be misconstrued, instead letting himself take in a deep breath. 

     “No,” he says, shaking his head lightly.  Is she saying what she thinks he wants to hear? But if she knew who they were, then there would be no reason to put on a charade for them.  Lying like this had no merit, unless she wanted to give herself an underdog advantage... which wouldn’t be necessary. 

It almost reminds him of how Bucky had looked at him with no flutter of memory, hadn’t even recognized his own name --   ( don’t -- )

         “Your name is Neveilla.”   He hopes it’s a clue for her; a truce, maybe even permission, if that’s what she was looking for.     

While the others made their weary way past her on their journey to fill their lungs with the fresh air they had been deprived of for what seemed like an eternity, Neveilla made no move to join them. For one, she didn’t know what would be waiting for them once they had quenched their thirst for a small amount of freedom. Where had they been taken? Were these people to be trusted? They had played the part of gallant heroes well, throwing themselves into the fray in order to rescue them from their captors, but who was to say whether this was just another in a long line of mind games. Designed to ground their will down to dust and ashes at their feet.

Her skin began to tingle, the small hairs on her arms standing to attention as she became acutely aware of a new presence on the plane. While she couldn’t feel any immediate malice coming from him, it didn’t little to lower her guard as she slowly lifted her gaze to take him in. A slow and languid movement of ivy sprang from the soil attached to the soles of her weather beaten feet, draping over her skin as it wrapped around her in a self-conjured armour, her eyes widened as she pulled back against the wall in an effort to increase the distance between them.

Her actions were enough to answer the man’s question. While some of these people had been a familiar presence in her life – some had even earned the moniker of ‘friend’ - she recognised none of them. Least of all the man before her. Yet even if she hadn’t have met him, her partner had spoken of him frequently. While they had had their differences, it was clear that Tony still thought highly of him. He had shared stories of the man and Howard when she had asked him about his father; he had never seemed especially keen to talk about the latter, so perhaps turning them into tales of the great Captain America had sugared the pill somewhat.

Should her actions alone not give the man any indication of her answer, she quietly shook her head, the ivy she had created as protector holding true.

“Please don’t hurt us anymore.”

       That’s one thing that was difficult to get used to - people shrinking away, becoming defensive. Growing up no one had been intimidated by him, and when he’d first gotten this body, everyone who wasn’t supposed to be afraid of him, knew who he was.  Now, every once in a while someone would come along that reminded him he could be intimidating without intending it.  A man without a home, at times feeling disassociated from his own body. 

             “No one’s going to hurt you anymore. Any of you,” he tells her, and he leans back against the wall of the jet - mostly to keep his shoulders from tensing up, and in turn betraying an anger that might be misinterpreted.   “I won’t hold it against you if you don’t believe me right now, but I do aim to prove it to you.” 

He’s never seen her power in person before, but he doesn’t want to focus on it. It’s the person within that he’s interested in. 

“My name is Steve Rogers. We’re in a field right next to the Avengers facility. Upstate New York, a couple miles out from the Hudson. The people who took you from Ryker’s Island are my teammates. We don’t know everything about what was going on there, but we do know that you were hurt there.”

Steve tells her the truth because that’s what he would have wanted. That’s what he needed, after he woke up and the world had changed.  But he’s not sure how much Neveilla can take, or how much she even wants to know.   What she’s capable of understanding. 

“This is your….fault Avengers. You failed…you failed to get the….mutant community…on side. Now we have…now we have to take them…by force. Starting with this….with this freak. She’s our….She’s our soldier..now.”

The same speech played in her dreams each night, choked out in stunted breaths on the flicker of an almost broken cellphone screen that had recorded her words. Her head held back by weathered, dirty fingers gripping her hair as she fought against the bindings around her shoulders. It was the last thing she could remember before waking in the white room. The screen laying in the rubble of the building she had been held captive inside before members of the ever dwindling SHIELD company came to her rescue. The only memory she held in a mind that refused to recall anything else.

Ever since the events of Sokovia, things had never been quite the same for those born with mutations. Government scrutiny had increased exponentially, along with ever public outcries for those who chose to act upon the side of good to be placed on trial for their percieved crimes. That interest now found them in the position of being classed as governmental items of interest. Items which they had recently staked a claim to under the pretence of being dubbed ‘weapons of mass destruction’. While some of them were safe due to their relatively benign skills; herself, Jean Grey and Professor Charles Xavier had been quick to find their safety in jeapardy. A situation which found them in the position they had been the day of their capture; fighting a select team pulled from the military, led by General Ross, to collect them for trophies and weaponisable commodities.

Some had been reluctant to turn the situation into a fight to protect them, but unsurprisingly, the last lingering remnants of the Avengers – the rest having fallen to the power of Thanos – had been the first to throw their hats into the ring.

“Natasha, we got guys coming in from the left, down Mainstreet and up from Third. Might want to get  somebody to take out the Tanks. ” Neveilla instructed as she pressed a finger to her earpiece, having been scoping the situation they currently found themselves in from the rooftop of a building nearby with Clint. About to make her way back down with him, she steeled over as she saw a young family huddled by the wall of the neighbouring bank, clearly frightened as the couple sheltered their small children. Wordlessly she moved to leave the rooftop, Clint calling after her as he craned his head to watch her. “Neveilla! Don’t be a hero! You can’t handle all this on your own!” he yelled, although she had already left and begun to make her way down the fire escape. Clint was quick to follow her.

Reaching the street, Neveilla pushed her way through the crowd of concerned civilians to get to the young family, keeping her head bowed until she had reached them. She didn’t say anything to them as she turned her back, casting a shield around them to protect them. This was enough to spark the crowds attention as they fell painfully silent, seeming to gather around as they stared with rapt attention. The silence seemed to last an age before being broken by a particularly brave man at the very back of the mob yelled 'This is her fault! Fucking Mutant!!!“ before lighting an old rag that he had stuffed into a bottle of vodka, throwing the bottle over the crowd in her direction as others in the crowd began to scream accusations. She quickly deflected the flaming alcohol bottle as well as other missiles, the crowd beginning to grow unruly again as various people broke away in search of weaponry before returning.

Clint had only managed to get part way onto the overfilled streets before the crowd closed in on him, their backs firmly held to him as they turned their attention to the scene Neveilla had created in her attempt to protect the small children huddled with their parents. He hadn’t expected her to do any less considering how long he had known her, but he was still angry for putting herself in danger. "Neveilla! For God sake!” he snapped to himself as he noticed a tall lamppost by his side, studying it for a moment before climbing it to see if he could gain a better view of what was happening in front of him. It was just when he had reached the top that he witnessed a clearly panicked police officer pull out his tazer and use it to its full force on Neveilla, forcing her to her knees although the shield around the family still held strong.

Neveilla hadn’t noticed the tazer until it had already been activated, far too late for her to do anything but take the hit. She clenched her jaw as the force of the electric current forced her to her knees, her eyes forcing themselves closed. For a few brief moments she lost her clear sense of hearing, the streets sounding as though she were inside an aquarium. But as suddenly as the loss of hearing occured, her head erupted with thousands of thoughts from the people around her, all resonating and screaming to be heard in their anger. She had always been able to at least be selective in what she heard from those around her - although the feelings she caught from them were beyond her control - but there was no controlling what she heard at the moment. She couldn’t block a thing. She was rooted to her position on the floor as her head ached with so much unbridled activity, the woman having to shake her head a few times before she managed to dull the noise enough that the only thing she could hear above the din was her heavy breathing. When she felt the first glass bottle collide with the side of her head, it was enough to pull her back to her senses as she got to her feet, thrusting her arms outwards to force the crowd back and away from her, enough force being used that the concrete ground cracked, creating a crater that encircled her and the young family behind her. She began to yell at them to get back in the hopes that she would be able to get the children to safety, but her words died quickly as she scanned the crowd. Some of the faces amongst them she recognised and they were not there in the hopes of peace, rather men she recognised as high ranking amongst Ross’s military elite, clearly there to fuel the situation.

Their distraction had been clear as she stood, neither herself not Clint noting the helicopter that had tracked  them to this exact location. The first instance Neva was aware of their company it was already too late as an oppressive device was launched through the bottom of the helicopter. In understanding that her powers required the control of her eyes and hands, a halo like device enclosed around her head to block her eyes, white capsules at the front of the device drawing her hands up to her face and holding them forcefully in place as she was knocked to the floor.”

The fight to reclaim the captured mutants had been long and arduous in nature, and not all of them had been saved. Those who had were incomplete in one form or another due to the tests that had been carried out on them in the name of progress and education. Scott Summers had been relieved of his eyes not long after arriving on Ryker’s Island, the screams that had rattled through the prison having provided another backdrop to Neveilla’s recurrent nightmares. But at least he had lived. Logan had been stripped for parts, his adamantium enriched skeleton having been hung like a trophy in Ross’s office; looming over the desk like a crucifixion scene, borne of a religion that brought little but hate and suffering in it’s following. The desk in question carried a bell jar filled with a clear fluid, the brain of the most brilliant man she had ever met floating within.

Neveilla herself had been used, along with Jean Grey, to power a machine the government had hoped would transmit controlling brainwaves to mutants that still dwelt within the confines of the US. With each failure in it’s ability to reach them, the machine had been powered up even further, to the point where Jean had died still hooked up to the machine. She herself carried her physical scars; a deep welt at the base of her skull where the device had been hooked to her being the most garish remnant of these. But the largest effect had been on her memory, of which had been mostly wiped clean like a slate. No memory of her allies. Of her friends. Her love.

Except for that one nightmare that refused her rest.

No -- this was comeuppance.  Comeuppance for the latest in a long list of failures: a cold ache clinging to his body an ally in his quest to desensitize and erase. 

     It’s not the only reason he’s out here.   

The most important one is the plane that appears in the distance, and it represents some semblance of redemption.    ( though their crime has no appropriate punishment or juror. half the eyes that might have delivered judgement had vanished, the remainder too preoccupied with coping and survival to pay any heed. to help is to not sit still, which means another buffer between himself and reality. )

The product of a rescue mission months in the making, his absence from the plane a necessity in order to have caused a distraction large enough to allow for the base to fall. The survivors were fewer than they’d hoped for, but contained one familiar name. ( a further chance at redemption, of making right a wrong that seemed so trivial now )

   Steve makes his way to the landing pad, hanging back as his teammates unload the passengers, until all but one remains.  He’s been briefed on what to except, and despite that his battered heart still surprises him by daring to hope. 

‘If the path doesn’t exist, create it’. 

This image really resonated with me, lately I find myself much more invested in my own personal journey, learning to think differently and becoming more present and conscious. Mindfulness was never something I was able to get into personally, I found it difficult to focus my consciousness and always found my mind drifting. But since beginning to read Michael Singers ‘The Untethered Soul’ (yes I realise I am a little late to the party on this one :) ) I have found my way of thinking has completely changed and I feel much more content in myself.