[Marvel: Steve/Preston]
[The New York Public Library was set up as a medical station. The line went around the block for the antitoxin and for other basic assistance. FEMA was on the ground, doing their governmental best to patch the city back together after yet another nightmare. The roads seemed almost unnaturally quiet after the two successive invasions (extraterrestrial and biological, in that order) fairly well decimated the population. News reporters spoke in hushed tones, and the rest of the country was donating to Red Cross funds to help NYC back on its feet.
Under a tent that was made up of not much more than plastic and metal poles set in concrete-filled buckets, Preston was sitting in a folding chair, listening to the minds around him. There were others in the tent too, most of them in some sort of emotional distress. The bad cases had already been flown off to hospitals, and minor injuries were quickly treated. The City as a whole was suffering from shock, and those left in the crowded tent all stared blankly and blinked slowly. The overwhelming majority of them were grieving for lost wives, sons, brothers and lovers. Preston was grieving only because they were grieving, the fluid mix of emotions stronger than liquor fumes and far more potent.
A wash of identities made surface and primal emotions strongest, and the visual minds were available only for those most vulnerable, but Preston had a strong, strong reach, even as tired as he was. He recognized Steve quickly, the competent yet warm complexity of his mind and also his deliberate stride. As the soldier neared, heads turned and mouths smiled, all of them with unnatural synchronicity, as one, and more of them as he drew closer to where the massive stone lion crouched guard over the tarp. No one actually spoke, and no one showed recognition, but they all turned to watch him as he passed.
A summer rain was misting over the muggy air, and dusk would be a welcome relief from the eighty degree heat.]