log, Manhattan: Sharon C/Steve R
The city was at war with itself, the Big Apple under fire, quantum combustion in a civil uprising, a grotesque cannibalization of citizens, bludgeoning bats and bared, bloody teeth. It was hell trying to move from one borough to another, especially on foot. People were more than panicked. Captain America had to stop, to help, every few minutes, to drag one man off another. But he made it. Eventually. His suit was torn in more than one place, red, white, and blue brought to fire, scabbed over with serum-speed, and his cap was pushed off his head, revealing sweat-soaked blond in a tangle. If he was injured, adrenaline didn't let him notice. He held his shield close.
Steve was escorted through the mess of the quarantine unit, through snarls of men and women in white suits—not that they'd help them. He walked carefully, head high, until he was left at the door he was informed Sharon (Agent Thirteen) was behind.
After knocking, the soldier cautiously opened the thing. Dirt mixed with salt and sweat on his face, but he managed the ghost of a smile because Sharon was here, and soon he'd have more help, and maybe—just maybe people could stop dying in droves. "Agent?"