ghostintheshield
"Capsicle, you've got incoming𑁋"
"How long?" Steve grunts, smashing the edge of his shield into the faceplate of a Chitauri who thought it was a bright idea to come at him from the side while he was seemingly distracted. Unfortunately for him... it... its buddy is already down for the count and Steve's reflexes are sharper than ever with the adrenaline rushing through his veins.
"Five minutes, give or take. You still got civilians in your quadrant?"
"Affirmative. Police haven't cleared this area yet and the barricade is a mile east of us."
"Widow and Barton are close to your position, they could swing around and𑁋"
"Yeah, Stark, hold onto that thought for a second," Steve interrupts. Stark splutters his indignation down the line but Steve ignores him, tugging off his helmet as he squints at what's happening down the street. Sweat trickles down from his hairline into his eyes and he irritably swipes it away, a little convinced that the gesture will also serve to wipe away what he's seeing. But no, that's definitely a man 𑁋 at least judging by the breadth of his shoulders and general body shape 𑁋 single-handedly facing off against a trio of enraged aliens.
There's a cluster of men and women, all of them sporting lab coats and clutching handfuls of files or expensive-looking equipment, huddled amongst the ruins of a storefront, their attention caught and held by the man decked out in black tactical gear slipping past the guard of a Chitauri and planting a knife in its side, armor be damned. And he's got a - a metal arm. Sure, why not. It's not the most mind-boggling thing he's seen today. And anyway, it could be body armor, something not unlike Tony's suit, but - no, Steve doesn't think that's the case. The arm moves too fluidly, far too reminiscent of a flesh and blood arm for the metal to simply be a casing.