2078/Gotta Punch Something!

Gotta Punch Something!
Date of Scene:	12 June 2020
Location:	Sporting Courts: Triskelion
Synopsis:	The past haunts in the shadows of the Triskelion's gym facilities.
Cast of Characters:	Peggy Carter, Steve Rogers

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Peggy Carter has posed:
It wasn't exactly in her prescribed physical therapy, but it had been too long. She was feeling better, if far from 100 percent, and restless anger more than made up for the lack of energy she might have. So, after the meeting and staring down at a data tablet for a bit too long, she sent a screaming text in the direction of the only two people who understood and changed. She needed to hit something.

Now she's in the recreation area, at one of the slightly lighter punching bags, but still one of the long ones, going through a drill that she still knows by heart from muscle memory decades old. It's a bit sloppy, punches thrown out of anger as much as they are for practice, but she's not here to keep up her fighting form. She's here because she can't scream with her voice right now, so she's screaming with her body. She's in nothing but a regulation tank top, sports bra, and close fitting pair of black shorts. Her hair is pulled back from sweat strewn face. She keeps hitting though her knuckles have already slightly bloodied. She should have wrapped them first, but it was the last thing on her mind. "Neo...nazis...my... arse..." She huffs to herself.

Steve Rogers has posed:
It's a sight to walk in upon, that's for sure. Steve was prepared for the thinned lips and sparking dark eyes he'd once seen over the edge of a shield upheld against a suddenly-appeared handgun. In essence, the fury directed at the bag isn't much less intense, though even as he's walking over, sneakers noiseless on the area's flooring, he's still trying very hard not to wince.

Those knuckles should have been wrapped.

"Peggy," he says by way of greeting even as he reaches out a hand as if to steady the swing of the smaller bag, his eyes immediately searching out her face and then her gaze in turn. He's in black regulation sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his golden brows quirked. "Lemme get some wrapping, here, hold up a second." His other hand lifts up, motioning for a slowing -- or at least, asking silently for one.

Peggy Carter has posed:
She doesn't swing on him but there is half a heartbeat that she might, having been so in the rhythm and just angry at anyone who's interrupting her well needed catharsis. But it's him. The moment Peggy sees the cut of his jaw, her hands drop instead of going for him or the bag again. She's a bit more out of breath than she'd normally be for wailing on a bag for a while, but it's a damned sight better than she was even a few weeks ago. She breathes raggedly for a moment, her brows knitting as he mentions wrapping, about to dismiss it but then she actually looks at her knuckles.

"...Yes... that may be... Wise." She huffs out, practically vibrating with that frustration, but she's managed to stop. "...What... what in hells, Steve? What the hell? HOW... How did they let these bastards survive, much less...rewrite themselves to *sound more palatable*. Alt right my...arse... Alt right was the widower Bergins who had some overly conservative opinions over bridge. This isn't... What the HELL, Steve?!" If he can get her hands to stay still, he might manage to wrap them.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Yes, it'd be wise." Quietly, the Captain says this. Rolling a few steps back and off the mat, he goes over to one of the first aid kits mounted on the wall. A flick of it open and he's got the basics for covering up those knuckles covered in cracked skin.

As he returns, there's one of those deep, deep sighs, from the very depths of his chest. His cheekbones lift into view as he clenches the line of his jaw, eyes downcast. His brows no longer meet in concern; their divoting is an iron-clad if reserved frustration as deep as her own. A palm offered out is for her own to alight upon, the better for the numbing ointment to be admnistered.

"Not a matter of letting 'em survive. Nobody'd let that linger if they had half an understanding 'bout what they stood for, still stand for. From what I can tell, it went underground 'nd..." Another sigh, this one short and curt. His true-blues rise to her face, filled with a banked and sympathetic ire. "Nobody got to the roots. Like pulling dandelions, grew again."

Peggy Carter has posed:
"...HYDRA... always... bloody well HYDRA, but this one..." Peggy's jaw tightens, her eyes as bright as they were in the past when she got really fired up about things, or on the trail of something important. There is just the tiniest crack behind it, the thing that makes her hands just slightly shake as he's working with the tape. This goes deeper than the ridiculousness of modern politic names. "...but that one... I should have killed him. Rotting in prison wasn't enough. Should have... just done it in the first place and damn my career or what the General said. Or... after. But I didn't and now..." She gives a frustrated little groan as she stares back at the bag, eager to hit again. But she's letting him do his job with the tape. The last thing she needs is another lecture from medical.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Her hand doesn't weigh much and when he feels it shake, the man glances down to make sure there's no other overt signs of damage -- not that he's any medical major, but the healing of hairline fractures in his bones is something he knows well. Again, Steve's eyes rise and he slows in winding the tape about the ordered peaks of her knuckles.

"Should've killed whom, Peggy?" How quietly he asks this and if it's not wariness, it's a subtle undercurrent of dread. He's already trying to think about who they missed, if anyone, before the fateful plane affair. Around and around the tape goes until he pinches it off, the better to nick it with a fingernail and tear it without pulling on the skin it wraps. Again, his palm is offered, now for her other hand.

Peggy Carter has posed:
No other damage. Just so many emotions that she can't quite contain them all, quite an accomplishment for a Brit but she had lived in America for decades and, more than that, this was part of what they'd been fighting SINCE then. Peggy doesn't quite give him her left hand yet but she turns, shoving a vicious right cross into the punching bag, missing him by a few inches but certainly getting the meat of the thing with a little grunt of breath to follow. That helped. A bit. She then huffs and turns back to him, offering her other hand.

"Werner Reinhardt. He's... back. Alive... somehow. Bobbi and her team discovered a man by the name of Daniel Whitehall doing the same damn experiments. With the same...Damn...*face*. I got him, Steve... Dum Dum, Morita, the boys... Me. We got him, in '45... after..." She looks to his eyes there. After he was gone. James was gone. "But the damned government wouldn't let me kill him... something about valuable knowledge... At least we locked him up instead of giving him fucking *immunity*..." And then she realizes JUST what a word she used. She's that mad. A bit more heat rises on her cheeks, "...Sorry."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Patience, being one of Steve's more dastardly traits, is put into use. There she goes, testing the wrappings right off the bat and his eyes mark the dent in the bag with respect. Quickly enough, they flicker from the pristine white wrappings and to her hand, now offered and taken with gentle strength. His fingertip daubs the ointment on as carefully as he can manage...until she says that name.

That name.

Gone completely still, mouth parted enough to flash just a hint of white teeth, he listens -- and stares. Reinhardt. A hard swallow at the damning time of apprehension and his heart pangs //hard// once against his ribs before settling into a more rapid pace.

Then comes //that CURSE WORD//. Steve blinks despite himself, mouth closing, brows rocketing up. Then, with the barest twist of his mouth, he leans in. "Would've been bullshit to give him that immunity," he says, sotte-voce.

Peggy Carter has posed:
"I know. They pushed for it. I *pushed back*. But, apparently, not hard enough." Peggy's momentary slip of language isn't brought up again because, frankly, she seems to feel a little justified. Now he might see why that slight shake is in her hands, the evening spent replaying the man's atrocities in her head and for a half dozen other agents. "...I should have killed him but I... I listened. I followed orders. I thought he was safely locked away. He was *locked up* when I went under...and now he's... Gone. Faked his death, from all the footage and files I can fine. But that man is him and he's OUT there again..." Her breath comes in another ragged exhale, worked into a temper once more. It's easy to get back there.

"...Agent Morse asked me to give a briefing tonight. I...did. I tried to... explain, to really make them understand but... hell, Steve, the pictures don't... they just don't tell it all. He's not a man, he's a monster. And he's OUT there again..." She looks up into his baby blues, exhaling slower after a second. "...I'm sorry. You know all this."

Steve Rogers has posed:
The unfiltered language is left to evaporate in the wake of more important information. Ointment applied to the lightly-bloodied knuckles, now comes the wrapping encircling overtop. Steve somehow manages to evenly divide attention between the delicate layering and her words, eyes falling and rising, lingering on her face. Falsified death makes the Captain grit his teeth again. It is shockingly effortless, to slip into a mirroring of her emotions -- she's never been false in them, not to his knowledge, not when her eyes glint as they do now.

"Doesn't matter if I know it. A reminder never goes remiss." His own voice is even, quiet, not asking anything of her but for what she deems appropriate in the moment. "'nd pictures do only so much justice. There's still a separation. Seeing it in person's another matter entirely. You did it right, Peggy, showing 'em." Another pinch, another careful tear, tucking of the tape into place. Away the roll goes into the pocket of his sweatpants alongside the tube of ointment and he slings his thumbs off the pockets' edges now, expression solemn but for the lingering shadow in his eyes. "He's out there. Gonna find what's been done."

Peggy Carter has posed:
As his fingertips finish that ripping, Peggy lets herself take a moment. She just grasps over his hand, squeezing for a single heartbeat, more conveyed in that touch than she can ever really figure out in words. The promise to keep fighting, yes, but the understanding of how bad it is he's out. How much she feels like she's failed. There's a lot a touch can do. She sighs deeply, "...We'll hunt him again, start over from scratch, just like before. I just... hate that we get stuck in this dance again. What else have we missed?"

And that question is enough, her anger at the world as lit up as it is at herself. How much did she miss in the last few years of her previous life? When did she get soft? She turns back to the bag and, tired or not, starts through the vicious, repeated set. Two jabs, two crosses, then a series of hooks before finishing with an upper cut. Then back to the top.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Thing is..."

Oof, that was a powerful hit. Steve watches the bag swing with more motion than before and looks back to Peggy again.

"...thing is, this's something that's been done before. Got records on his habits up to '45: patterns of movement, favored resources, all of that. Just gotta translate it to current times 'nd the trail'll catch up like a fuse in a coal mine. People don't change...not people like him, not when he's managed to get away with what he did while he could. Steps to this dance...we know 'em."

Peggy Carter has posed:
"We do...and we know it. And we'll do it again." Peggy breathes out between punches, falling into a slightly different rhythm with some repeated crosses broken up by lower jabs. It's an old routine, something she trained with for years, she's doing it by rote and muscle memory with only the anger fueling her energy, but she's still lovely to watch. She's going to be terrifying when she's at 100 percent. "...I just can't help feeling...I didn't finish the job right...the first time. And that's *my* fault."

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Mmm...don't think so."

Reaching out, the man steps closer to the punching bag and stills it with a palm against it. His eyes search out her face, meet her regard and hold it. "'s'not your fault for following orders. There're a lot of things we could've done better -- you, me, Buck, the Commandos, the SSR...but thing is, can't go back 'nd get a second shot. We did what we could with what we had. This time around, we're wiser 'nd we've got more tech at hand than I know what to do with half of the time." There's a twinkle of self-remonstration there, but nothing too bright; Steve always has been quick to pick up the workings of new objects. "This time around? No rat's slipping away."

Peggy Carter has posed:
There's that look in her eyes as he dares still her punching bag again, even if his words are worth the attention. The look is the same one he got over the shield the first time he tested it and she was shooting at him seemingly dead serious. She's slightly huffing again, breathless with the fight against the punching bag, but she lets him say his piece. The set of her jaw is not exactly comforted, but she's listening. When he's finally done she sighs, giving a slight shake of her head. "You're... right. We have no other options. Doesn't make me any less... frustrated that we didn't do it right the first time around."

She'll punch it out, exhaust herself, and the emotions will pass. This has happened before. But tonight, in this moment, she knows she's not done yet. "...I'll... think more clear about it in the morning. For tonight? Just... I'm going to finish this thing until my knuckles or my legs give up. Not going to be much company, otherwise. But...thanks for coming, Steve. The pep talk... it'll help. Just not right now." And with that, she turns fully away from him. Back to the bag. Back into her set. She'd be an exhausted mess at the end, but right now fighting it out was her whole focus.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"I understand...'nd 's'not a problem." Steve would try for a faint smile, but it doesn't feel appropriate, not right now when the workout area has shadows lingering by imagination and past imagery carefully filed away from the darkest hours of the night. Instead, he nods, watching her depart from the conversation by way of the presentation of her shoulder -- how her face shifts from profile to the back of her hair. His gaze drops and he lingers only a few seconds more.

His own steps are silent beneath the sound of the impacts on the bag. Back to the first aid kit he goes to return the ointment and tuck away the wrapping. His broad-shouldered silhouette blocks it out as he closes the kit with a soft 'click' of sound. A subtle nod, to himself, and he then turns and walks past her again.

"Rest when you can, Peggy." This said as he turns in his travels, briefly facing her, before continuing on and leaving the woman to her physical ventings. There's a punching bag at the Mansion with his name on it as it stands.