Eddie Brock — Roleplayer Guild

QURAC
PERSIAN GULF
AUGUST 1992

Sergeant Nick Fury ducked behind an outcropping, swearing beneath his breath. If he lived to see the end of this night, he was going to have a pointed conversation with someone from Army intelligence. By all reports, the locals had stationed a small defense force to guard the site; instead, the landing party had fallen upon damn near the full force of the Quraci army. If they hadn't used the cover of darkness to gain the element of surprise, Fury and his men might've been swatted away like so many flies. As it was, they had sustained significant casualties and found themselves facing an uphill battle against entrenched opposition. It's always the "simple" jobs that completely go to shit, Fury sneered as a stray bullet chipped away at his cover.

The sergeant seized this opportunity to take stock of his dwindling forces. When the firefight began, the Americans scattered like roaches, making it hard to keep track of them all. As Fury looked around, he estimated that about half the squadron was still up and fighting; the other half were injured, dying, or already lost. They hadn't been a large contingent to begin with, and each man downed reduced their strength significantly. In order to turn this fight around, they'd have to take down five Quraci for each American defeated. And that was only if Quraci reinforcements didn't arrive from the south and outflank their position. Simply put, things were looking grim.

Across the way, Fury watched as a corporal tended to a soldier with a leg wound. The injured boy couldn't have been older than nineteen. Feeling a pang in his shoulder, the sergeant looked down to see that he had suffered his own gunshot wound; the desert camouflage of his uniform ran black with blood. When he moved his arm, Fury felt the slug rubbing and tearing at the sinew of his shoulder. The real pain wouldn't come until later, though, when he had to pry the bullet out. Of course, at the rate things were going, he wouldn't live long enough to face that ordeal. Wincing through his discomfort, Fury raised his weapon and hit the mag-release. The cartridge tumbled to the dirt.

As he fumbled for a new magazine, Sergeant Fury dared to peek around the outcropping. In the darkness, he could make out little more than a row of muzzle flashes from where the Quraci were set up. A near-miss convinced the sergeant to put his head back down. No sooner had he gotten a handle on the next cartridge than something peculiar happened: the shooting stopped. There was a chorus of shouts in Arabic, and then the Quraci opened fire again, this time aiming away from Fury and his men. Never one to miss an opportunity, Sergeant Fury popped up and leveled his rifle at the nearest enemy. With his one good eye, the sergeant stared down the sights; yet before he could take the shot, something flashed across his field of vision, and the Quraci soldier dropped.

Straightening, Fury was at first surprised and then relieved to see a bright, metal disc hurtling through the air. Looking eastward, he spotted its source, a living legend clad in red, white, and blue. All the Quraci rifles were trained on Captain America as he broke through the line; he downed an enemy soldier with a vicious right hook, then tumbled for cover as his shield almost magically found its way back to him. Though this was not Fury's first time seeing the Captain in action, it was always a wonder to watch. The day was not yet lost, and with a surge of confidence, Fury stood and barked to his men, "If you were waiting for a miracle, you just got it! Let's go!"

He charged ahead, and the Quraci defense soon fell.

WIND RIVER RANGE
WYOMING
LOCAL TIME 1705 (MST)

The two men entered the cabin in silence. Shuffling ahead of them, Scout beelined to the kitchen, plopping down on his haunches beside the table. His owner followed, retrieving a scrap-covered plate from the counter and offering the dog his share. As the pup began to lick at the bones, Rogers continued on towards the sink. He stood with his back to Fury, still every bit the imposing specimen he must've been in that secret Brooklyn laboratory all those decades ago. Turning the faucet, he began to wash his hands as he finally spoke, "So, how long have you known about this place?"

Fury saw no reason to lie. "Two weeks after you moved in," he admitted. As he gave his answer, he took stock of his surroundings. The cabin was sparsely decorated, though not without character; here and there, the Director spied keepsakes and mementos from Rogers' long life. It didn't come as a surprise that the man who once dressed himself in stars and stripes would have a sentimental streak. He had also become something of a huntsman during his self-imposed exile, if the rifles mounted to the wall were any indication. No trophies, though, Fury noted. He didn't glamorize the kill.

The sound of the faucet turning off drew Fury's gaze back to the front. Snatching a towel from the oven handle, Rogers turned around and began drying his hands. "I suppose I should feel grateful I've been left in peace this long, then," he mused. He leaned back against the edge of the sink and set the towel on the counter. Crossing his arms, he met Fury's one-eyed gaze with his own steely blue one. "Well, I know you're not here to recruit me for a weekly poker game," he said.

"I'm here to ask for your help, Cap," Fury answered.

Rogers shook his head. "I've done enough 'helping' for one lifetime, I think," he mused. Pushing off from the counter, he walked over to where Scout was trying to salvage every last morsel from a meal long-since finished. As Rogers retrieved the plate, he scratched the lab behind his ear, and Scout flashed his owner an appreciative look. Straightening, Rogers carried the plate back to the sink as he said, almost casually, "Besides, if there's one thing SHIELD doesn't lack for, it's help. Why don't you ask your new boy -- what's his name again? -- 'U.S.Agent?'"

Fury shrugged. As Rogers set to the task of washing his dishes, he took the opportunity to look around a little closer. Drawing near to Rogers desk, he discovered a stack of newspapers from around the world; all current. It seemed that Rogers wasn't as detached from things as he made it look. "Agent Walker might've been able to help me, but I'm afraid he's already tied up elsewhere," the Director explained.

With his back still turned, Rogers offered, "Isaiah, then."

Again, the Director deflected. "Bradley's currently in an assisted-living facility in upstate New York. While the serum he received kept him physically capable all these years, his mind couldn't hold up. He's got the mind of a ninety year-old Alzheimer's patient in the body of a nineteen year-old Olympian." He paused to let this revelation settle; after all, he knew that Rogers and Bradley were close once upon a time. Even on days when Isaiah couldn't recognize his own family, he always, always remembered Captain America.

At that, Rogers glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sorry to hear that," he replied with full sincerity. After a moment, he returned to his task. "Regardless, you already knew what my answer would be; you knew it the second you left DC. So why don't you tell me why you're really here, Nick? What could be so important that you'd come all this way looking for my help?"

Fury hesitated. "It's Qurac," he stated simply. At that, Rogers' posture shifted. His shoulders stiffened, and he stood up straighter. Fury continued, "I'm not here to ask for an endorsement of the last half-century of public policy. I'm not even here to convince you to come out of retirement for good, even if I think the world still needs you. I'm just here to ask you to help clean up a mess we made more than twenty years ago."

After a moment, he gave a humorless laugh. "Has it been that long? I guess you really can't outrun your sins forever," he spoke darkly. Rogers grit his teeth. Even as every fiber of his being fought against it, Steve knew what he had to do. He turned off the faucet again and spun to face Fury. There was a look on the Director's face that almost approached sympathy. Steve sighed, flashing Scout an apologetic look. "When do you need me?" he asked Fury.

"We're headed back to DC tonight," the Director answered.

Steve nodded. He took another deep breath, trying to make peace with his decision. In truth, he didn't know if he even still had it; he had been out of the game so long, and he hadn't gotten any younger. But he was still Captain America, and he had to try. Wringing his hands, feeling the rough calluses beneath his fingers, he said, "Alright, well, give me fifteen minutes to get my affairs in order. I've gotta make a call." In a place this remote, friends were scarce, and Steve hadn't gone out of his way to be sociable. Still, there was a gentleman who ran the hardware store in the nearest town with whom Steve had a good relationship; he could trust him to take good care of Scout.

Just under fifteen minutes later, Steve emerged from the cabin, a heavy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Fury stood by the SUV, waiting patiently; Agent Bordeaux, somewhat less so. When he reached the car, Steve afforded one last longing look at his home. It would never be the same after this. The Director introduced Bordeaux, and Steve regarded her with a polite, "Ma'am." Whatever thoughts the special agent had about their guest, she kept them to herself. They all crammed into the car, which seemed a bit more spacious when its backseat didn't have to accommodate a 6'3", 250 pound man. Conversation was sparse, with Rogers clearly ruminating on his decision to come along. All Bordeaux could think was that he looked pretty good for a man about to eclipse the century mark.
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