log, Harlem: Selina K/Steve R
[I'm pretending this is before the Sharon log. Fuzz.]
[The hour of the day changed nothing but the wattage of the stage lights aimed at the floor of a city breaking itself in half. Whether in darkness or under the brittle brightness of sun, the people of New York were in a fervor—half panicked at their own mad delusions, at sights they never thought they'd have to see again, the other half, panicked in reaction, at the men coming after them with blades shorn from blenders, women with guns they'd bought on a whim, brains glutted bloodlust that burst greasily under pressure. They came screaming about long lost loves and worse. This wasn't war. War was chaos as well, but it was soldiers, paratroopers, platoons and battalions, Hell, even guerrilla warfare was men and women consigned or signed up for a cause. Somebody thought they were right and they were willing to stand up for that.
There was nothing to prove here. It was the stripped-down cataclysm of fear gone viral, of fear private made public. It was an expression of demons in projection on the faces of strangers and loved ones alike, and it was utter madness. Alien attacks meant populations wanted protection, they would listen—they would pile into planes for evacuation, they would do what was needed. The people now? They ran at each other, willingly impaling themselves for figments of bitter phantasmagoria. Not even a soldier's training—a captain's—could prepare someone for this, not really.
Steve tried to keep a clear head. With everyone going down around him, snuffed out by their own anger, by choice, or by the grip-grab of manufactured fear multiplied in their guts, he had to. He had Stark in his ear. Dr. Banner and Gwen needed blood samples. And as things escalated, as the National Guard came in to assist the CDC in gathering said samples, as Tony's suits stood sentinel at various quarantine units, and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents dropped from the sides of buildings like so many spiders, Steve just did what he could.
He'd spent most of his time attempting to thwart catastrophe. He'd been worried when Selina had gone black on communication, but—Eddie had said she was alive, if frightened. Steve didn't have the luxury of worry at the moment. He had to trust the woman to take care of herself, even ill, if she didn't want to go to Stark Tower (and he thought he could understand that sentiment, if only just; she'd seen death there before, hadn't she?). But he did want her blood. She'd started showing symptoms earlier than many others and if anything changed as the sickness advanced—if that might help—, Dr. Banner and Gwen needed to find out, and Steve was the catalyst to make that happen.
In the throngs of Harlem, just past the burnt carcass of a Ford that reeked of gasoline and crude oil, and above the reach of the lingering flames, Captain America jumped from rooftop to rooftop. He remembered the alley cats he'd fed as a child, their skittishness at first. He pushed blond out of his eyes. His cap was down, shield up, and atop the community center, he waited, wondering if he should have brought a bowl of milk.]