HISTORY, steve rogers

004. MISSION

“EYES?”

“All clear, Nomad. Widow and I are moving in.”

Rogers looks to Amon momentarily. Amon nods.

The building looks old, and it's seemingly abandoned, but all of them, despite no magical insight, could tell it was deceiving. As soon as they arrived, Amon could feel the pulsing energy coming off of it in waves of magic. Whoever they have on their side is packing a punch, powers that Amon hasn't seen being used negatively in a very long time, and Amon felt obligated to state just how unlikely they were to get out of the mission unharmed in crucial detail. Starting with the barriers in some areas that Amon's pretty sure will slowly disinegrate your insides at an alarming, uncontrollable rate that feels like bricks and cement crushing your organs between each other and is only curable with something along the lines of the blood of a virgin under a solar eclipse while Cicada beetles are out of the ground. Sam seemed very pale.

Rogers leads Amon up an oddly placed landmark that's in a shape of hill that's nearly touching the looming building — but the only thing physically connecting them is a thick cement block connected to the building for no apparent reason. Although Amon saw the entire layout, knows it intimately because of intensive long bouts of the dubbed Superhero Staring with his mission buddies, he still feels weary of the situation along with the location.

Seriously, why in hell is that cement block just hanging off of the building like that?

It's the first time in a while that Amon's been more paranoid about the things around him rather than the people around him.

Suddenly, Amon scrunches his nose up. “Do you smell that?” he whispers to Rogers, who hesitantly pauses. It smells like gunfire but there's been no sound of shooting.

The man literally turns to the wind and sniffs the air. He's like a puppy.

“Yes,” he says. After a moment; “Falcon, Widow, report.”

“It's still a ghost town,” Sam immediately replies. “No sign of life.”

Amon makes a noise. “Maybe because of the smell.”

Rogers sends him a considering glance, which Amon arches an eyebrow at. Rogers gives him a little smile, looks over his shoulder, then abruptly takes a hold of Amon's waist, and shoves him to the ground.

Behind the block of cement. This is an extremely lucky situation, and Amon wonders if this is how the life of heroes always goes. Lucky little shits.

“Widow, Falcon, report,” Rogers murmurs, his hot breath tickling Amon's neck. Amon let's out a stifled giggle that Rogers tries to hide a grin at.

“We're in, Nomad,” Romanoff's amused voice carries over the comms. “And there's still no one around. By your tone, I suppose the same isn't for you?”

“Ha ha,” Rogers grunts, lowly. “We're seeing a group of five figured moving toward the building. Would you like the offensive to take care of it, or do you have the situation under control?”

“We have it under control,” Sam responds, his tone entertained as well. “Updates every two?”

“Updates every two,” Rogers agrees. “We're moving in on the back, expected entry in five.”

“Copy.”

As they start moving down the hill, Amon nudges Rogers. “You sound so professional, Stevie.”

Rogers looks at him, weary. “We use codenames in the field, Moros.”

“No fun,” Amon replies easily. “Anyway, why aren't you guys gonna... I don't know, tear this place to shreds once you're done here? Isn't that what heroes do?”