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breakinglight11Forever Captain:
“Boulder in the Stream”
By Phoebe Roberts
~~~
Summary: “It’s been seven years since Steve Rogers retired to the midcentury after returning the Infinity Stones. By 1954, he’s built a contented new life as Grant Carter, Peggy’s husband and stay-at-home dad to two great kids. But he’s never been able to shake his fears of what his presence here will do to change the progress of the timeline. Or— perhaps worse —that he has no power to affect the course of events at all.
A direct continuation of “His Part to Play.” A more plot-focused adventure story.”
Previous chapters:
1. Glimmer
2. Siege
3. Backup
Chapter summary: Steve recalls fighting off the operatives invading his home a few years ago.
“Boulder in the Stream”
By Phoebe Roberts
~~~
Summary: “It’s been seven years since Steve Rogers retired to the midcentury after returning the Infinity Stones. By 1954, he’s built a contented new life as Grant Carter, Peggy’s husband and stay-at-home dad to two great kids. But he’s never been able to shake his fears of what his presence here will do to change the progress of the timeline. Or— perhaps worse —that he has no power to affect the course of events at all.
A direct continuation of “His Part to Play.” A more plot-focused adventure story.”
Previous chapters:
1. Glimmer
2. Siege
3. Backup
Chapter summary: Steve recalls fighting off the operatives invading his home a few years ago.
~~~
4. Onslaught
Steve couldn't see them as they entered, but they made just enough noise for him to assess. All signs pointed to a trained team, proceeding with brisk caution into the unknown terrain ahead. He knew he couldn't hope for much from his last-minute improvised defenses, but he could tell from their careful steps and pauses that, if nothing else, it served to slow them down.
If they entered with the full complement, he couldn't quite tell. He'd taken on six men at a time before, but he had no idea what kind of arms they carried, and he certainly wasn't bulletproof. Holding his breath, he listened as hard he could, trying to detect their trajectories. Based on their voices and footsteps they appeared to be fanning out, moving off in different directions to clear the darkened house. Steve had to fight against letting out a sigh of relief— if they split up, he'd have a chance of cutting them from the herd.
He could hear the change in the footfalls as one moved from the carpet of the living room to the tiled floor of the kitchen. When they spotted the overturned table, they would know something was amiss, so Steve decided quickly, placing the golf club aside and yanking on the oven mitt. With his free hand he snatched up the ammonia jug and unscrewed the cap. He tipped the bottle into the mitt, until he could feel the wetness soaking through the quilting.
The operative came a few steps closer and paused, and Steve was certain he'd noticed the table. On his knees, breath still held, Steve crept out and around it, trying to keep it between him and the operative's approach. In the darkness, Steve could just make out the shape of the agent's armored fatigues, the buckled helmet, the pistol clutched in one hand. Steve held perfectly still for a few seconds more, waiting, as the man hooked around the far side of the table to investigate behind.
Then he sprang. In a flash he was on the man, crushing him into his arms and clamping the oven mitt over his mouth. The operative struggled and tried to cry out, but Steve already had him closed up tight, with nowhere to breathe but right into the ammonia. He held his grip until finally the body went limp.
Steve lowered him gently to the floor and lingered there a moment, listening. The movements and murmuring continued uninterrupted. He knew the next one couldn't be far behind. After clearing the living room, another proceeded along the hallway, heading towards the stairs to pass by the side entrance to the kitchen.
Steve reached around the wall of the table until he found the golf club. Tucking it up under his arm, he crawled out across the linoleum toward the side entryway. He pressed himself into the wall beside it, just in time for the next agent to pass.
With one quick, smooth motion, Steve hooked the head of the golf club around the agent's ankle and pulled. The man pitched forward and stumbled, but did not fall. Steve pounced on him, leaping to catch the man in his arms before he dropped and locking his neck in the crook of his elbow. The operative struggled and fought, but Steve squeezed until the sleeper hold took. He waited a moment to be sure, then dragged the man back around the corner into the kitchen. Steve cast about for some way to restrain him for when he regained consciousness, and settled with a sigh for knotting together the laces on his shoes.
He crept back out into the hallway, pressing against the wall as he approached the second floor stairs. Sure enough, they'd been drawn to the reading light in his study, and he watched the three of them draw sidearms and shove wide the half-open door. They paused to see the room was empty, then spun and shot back out, faster than he could dart out of sight.
Almost as one, they turned on him, guns leveled. With the precision of a trained unit they stepped into formation and advanced.
He couldn't have bullets flying when he didn't know where the children were. But neither could they simply open fire without the entire neighborhood hearing. He had to keep them holding off. Steve raised his hands and stepped backward, retreating down the hallway as they pushed after him. He kept going until the side doorway to the kitchen opened up on his left.
He paused, just a few seconds, surprising them into hauling up short. Then he dove sideways out of their line of sight. He knew he had only moments before they turned in to see the kitchen table overturned like a barricade and tore down the cover. Steve moved to prepare himself very fast.
He could see them pressed against the walls of the hallway, peering in around the edge of the jamb. After a beat, two of the three weapons raised, took aim at the broad side of the tabletop. Short, silenced reports burst forth, blasting holes through the table and knocking it back with a thump against the broad thing hidden behind it.
Swift booted steps brought them into the kitchen, pacing around the table to see what they'd hit. Their guns, half raised, wavered a moment as they took in the sight of the ironing board, padding now shot through with bullets, that had been hidden behind the barricade.
That was when Steve struck. Springing out from the shadow beside the refrigerator, he caught the near one with a blow from the steam iron, enough to spin the man right around. Steve wound up again and the iron, now hot as coals, slammed straight into the operative's face.
The second startled at this so hard he fired off another shot, straight into the wall ahead. He recovered enough to turn on Steve and fired again, forcing him to slam the iron down on the barrel to turn the shot aside. Another bullet was sent into the floor, and Steve swept up the iron to nail him upside the jaw.
He whirled for the last man, but that one was ready for him. He caught the iron on his own weapon, twisting hard enough to wrench it from Steve' grasp. Steve leapt backward as it clattered to the floor. The kitchen counter slammed him in the small of the back, pulling him him up short. He glanced to the hallway to the left but the fallen men and the overturned table blocked his way. His hands scrabbled on the countertop behind him, seeking something, anything to make use of as the third operative again raised the gun.
His fingers closed on the edge of a platter, shallow round metal he used for warming things in the oven. Instinct took over in that moment. He snatched it from the counter, wound up, and hurled.
The weight and balance were all off, of course. But he hadn't entirely lost the old touch. The platter struck the operative in the neck between his helmet and the edge of his body armor, and the gun clattered to the tile as he crumpled.
Steve gasped to catch his breath as he knelt to lash the fallen men to the table legs and gathered up their guns. He was figuring out how to dislodge the magazines as he made a count— one man down with the ammonia, one with the sleeper hold, three with the platter and the steam iron.
That was only five. A jolt of panic lanced through him as he looked around and saw nothing. He realized he'd never laid eyes on the last man. He could be anywhere— waiting outside, lurking in hiding, or intercepting Rishun as she carried away the kids.
Stashing the ammunition in the freezer, Steve picked up the golf club. Then, after a brief pause, stomped on the edge of the platter to flip it into his hands.
Room by room he cleared the bottom floor of the house, until he was certain the remaining man wasn't on it. The garage and the basement doors were still locked, which left only the top floor. Steve ascended the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could, stepping lightly over the broom handles he'd slid between the balustrades. Heaven knew there were any number of places the last operative could be lurking, but Steve knew where he had to go first.
He hardly dared to breathe as he looked inside the children's room, checking beneath the bed and behind the dresser and past the clothes hanging in the closet. He moved to the window and looked down at the trellis, in hopes of a sign that Rishun had gotten the kids out safely. But, like a good op, of course she left none. If he was lucky, she was long gone, before any of the intruders could make it upstairs.
Steve was about to turn when he heard the click. He dropped to the carpeted floor of the bedroom as the bullet whizzed past his ear and out through the window.
He spun over and swept with the golf club, taking the operative's legs out from under him. He pounced to wrest away the gun, whirling to hurl it out through the shattered window. But in doing so, he had to release his grip on the club, just long enough for the operative to snatch it up again. Steve turned back into a shuddering blow as the man cracked it hard across his rib cage.
It knocked the wind out of him in a gust. Still, Steve rolled with the force of it, trying to put some distance between them. When he was right side up again he took off, tearing out of the kids room and into the hall. But this last operative reacted fast and kept after him, golf club swinging in ferocious strokes. Steve dodged and turned to deflect a few blows with the platter, bracing it between his hands as he moved backwards. But soon it proved too much for the thing, finally crumpling in his grasp.
The staircase opened up behind him, festooned with trip hazards. He tried to step past them but he was pushed too fast; within two steps he was entangled with a broom handle and felt his balance go. He tumbled down on his battered side until he hit the floor of the ground level hard. He twisted, breathless, as the last operative skipped his way down. In a moment, Steve found himself staring up at him as he raised the golf club to strike.
There was a clang, and the operative dropped like a stone. One last time, Steve's rib cage rattled as the man's body thumped down on top of him. Coughing and struggling, Steve shoved operative off of him to look up and see the new figure, standing over him where the man had just been. It was Rishun, in her canvas jumpsuit. She held a frying pan in her hand.
"Knew I spotted a sixth man," she said.
~~~
Next chapter: 5. Operatives
4. Onslaught
Steve couldn't see them as they entered, but they made just enough noise for him to assess. All signs pointed to a trained team, proceeding with brisk caution into the unknown terrain ahead. He knew he couldn't hope for much from his last-minute improvised defenses, but he could tell from their careful steps and pauses that, if nothing else, it served to slow them down.
If they entered with the full complement, he couldn't quite tell. He'd taken on six men at a time before, but he had no idea what kind of arms they carried, and he certainly wasn't bulletproof. Holding his breath, he listened as hard he could, trying to detect their trajectories. Based on their voices and footsteps they appeared to be fanning out, moving off in different directions to clear the darkened house. Steve had to fight against letting out a sigh of relief— if they split up, he'd have a chance of cutting them from the herd.
He could hear the change in the footfalls as one moved from the carpet of the living room to the tiled floor of the kitchen. When they spotted the overturned table, they would know something was amiss, so Steve decided quickly, placing the golf club aside and yanking on the oven mitt. With his free hand he snatched up the ammonia jug and unscrewed the cap. He tipped the bottle into the mitt, until he could feel the wetness soaking through the quilting.
The operative came a few steps closer and paused, and Steve was certain he'd noticed the table. On his knees, breath still held, Steve crept out and around it, trying to keep it between him and the operative's approach. In the darkness, Steve could just make out the shape of the agent's armored fatigues, the buckled helmet, the pistol clutched in one hand. Steve held perfectly still for a few seconds more, waiting, as the man hooked around the far side of the table to investigate behind.
Then he sprang. In a flash he was on the man, crushing him into his arms and clamping the oven mitt over his mouth. The operative struggled and tried to cry out, but Steve already had him closed up tight, with nowhere to breathe but right into the ammonia. He held his grip until finally the body went limp.
Steve lowered him gently to the floor and lingered there a moment, listening. The movements and murmuring continued uninterrupted. He knew the next one couldn't be far behind. After clearing the living room, another proceeded along the hallway, heading towards the stairs to pass by the side entrance to the kitchen.
Steve reached around the wall of the table until he found the golf club. Tucking it up under his arm, he crawled out across the linoleum toward the side entryway. He pressed himself into the wall beside it, just in time for the next agent to pass.
With one quick, smooth motion, Steve hooked the head of the golf club around the agent's ankle and pulled. The man pitched forward and stumbled, but did not fall. Steve pounced on him, leaping to catch the man in his arms before he dropped and locking his neck in the crook of his elbow. The operative struggled and fought, but Steve squeezed until the sleeper hold took. He waited a moment to be sure, then dragged the man back around the corner into the kitchen. Steve cast about for some way to restrain him for when he regained consciousness, and settled with a sigh for knotting together the laces on his shoes.
He crept back out into the hallway, pressing against the wall as he approached the second floor stairs. Sure enough, they'd been drawn to the reading light in his study, and he watched the three of them draw sidearms and shove wide the half-open door. They paused to see the room was empty, then spun and shot back out, faster than he could dart out of sight.
Almost as one, they turned on him, guns leveled. With the precision of a trained unit they stepped into formation and advanced.
He couldn't have bullets flying when he didn't know where the children were. But neither could they simply open fire without the entire neighborhood hearing. He had to keep them holding off. Steve raised his hands and stepped backward, retreating down the hallway as they pushed after him. He kept going until the side doorway to the kitchen opened up on his left.
He paused, just a few seconds, surprising them into hauling up short. Then he dove sideways out of their line of sight. He knew he had only moments before they turned in to see the kitchen table overturned like a barricade and tore down the cover. Steve moved to prepare himself very fast.
He could see them pressed against the walls of the hallway, peering in around the edge of the jamb. After a beat, two of the three weapons raised, took aim at the broad side of the tabletop. Short, silenced reports burst forth, blasting holes through the table and knocking it back with a thump against the broad thing hidden behind it.
Swift booted steps brought them into the kitchen, pacing around the table to see what they'd hit. Their guns, half raised, wavered a moment as they took in the sight of the ironing board, padding now shot through with bullets, that had been hidden behind the barricade.
That was when Steve struck. Springing out from the shadow beside the refrigerator, he caught the near one with a blow from the steam iron, enough to spin the man right around. Steve wound up again and the iron, now hot as coals, slammed straight into the operative's face.
The second startled at this so hard he fired off another shot, straight into the wall ahead. He recovered enough to turn on Steve and fired again, forcing him to slam the iron down on the barrel to turn the shot aside. Another bullet was sent into the floor, and Steve swept up the iron to nail him upside the jaw.
He whirled for the last man, but that one was ready for him. He caught the iron on his own weapon, twisting hard enough to wrench it from Steve' grasp. Steve leapt backward as it clattered to the floor. The kitchen counter slammed him in the small of the back, pulling him him up short. He glanced to the hallway to the left but the fallen men and the overturned table blocked his way. His hands scrabbled on the countertop behind him, seeking something, anything to make use of as the third operative again raised the gun.
His fingers closed on the edge of a platter, shallow round metal he used for warming things in the oven. Instinct took over in that moment. He snatched it from the counter, wound up, and hurled.
The weight and balance were all off, of course. But he hadn't entirely lost the old touch. The platter struck the operative in the neck between his helmet and the edge of his body armor, and the gun clattered to the tile as he crumpled.
Steve gasped to catch his breath as he knelt to lash the fallen men to the table legs and gathered up their guns. He was figuring out how to dislodge the magazines as he made a count— one man down with the ammonia, one with the sleeper hold, three with the platter and the steam iron.
That was only five. A jolt of panic lanced through him as he looked around and saw nothing. He realized he'd never laid eyes on the last man. He could be anywhere— waiting outside, lurking in hiding, or intercepting Rishun as she carried away the kids.
Stashing the ammunition in the freezer, Steve picked up the golf club. Then, after a brief pause, stomped on the edge of the platter to flip it into his hands.
Room by room he cleared the bottom floor of the house, until he was certain the remaining man wasn't on it. The garage and the basement doors were still locked, which left only the top floor. Steve ascended the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could, stepping lightly over the broom handles he'd slid between the balustrades. Heaven knew there were any number of places the last operative could be lurking, but Steve knew where he had to go first.
He hardly dared to breathe as he looked inside the children's room, checking beneath the bed and behind the dresser and past the clothes hanging in the closet. He moved to the window and looked down at the trellis, in hopes of a sign that Rishun had gotten the kids out safely. But, like a good op, of course she left none. If he was lucky, she was long gone, before any of the intruders could make it upstairs.
Steve was about to turn when he heard the click. He dropped to the carpeted floor of the bedroom as the bullet whizzed past his ear and out through the window.
He spun over and swept with the golf club, taking the operative's legs out from under him. He pounced to wrest away the gun, whirling to hurl it out through the shattered window. But in doing so, he had to release his grip on the club, just long enough for the operative to snatch it up again. Steve turned back into a shuddering blow as the man cracked it hard across his rib cage.
It knocked the wind out of him in a gust. Still, Steve rolled with the force of it, trying to put some distance between them. When he was right side up again he took off, tearing out of the kids room and into the hall. But this last operative reacted fast and kept after him, golf club swinging in ferocious strokes. Steve dodged and turned to deflect a few blows with the platter, bracing it between his hands as he moved backwards. But soon it proved too much for the thing, finally crumpling in his grasp.
The staircase opened up behind him, festooned with trip hazards. He tried to step past them but he was pushed too fast; within two steps he was entangled with a broom handle and felt his balance go. He tumbled down on his battered side until he hit the floor of the ground level hard. He twisted, breathless, as the last operative skipped his way down. In a moment, Steve found himself staring up at him as he raised the golf club to strike.
There was a clang, and the operative dropped like a stone. One last time, Steve's rib cage rattled as the man's body thumped down on top of him. Coughing and struggling, Steve shoved operative off of him to look up and see the new figure, standing over him where the man had just been. It was Rishun, in her canvas jumpsuit. She held a frying pan in her hand.
"Knew I spotted a sixth man," she said.
~~~
Next chapter: 5. Operatives
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