Of all the marvels of the 21st century, the 24-hour news cycle stands alone. Stories are drained dry, spun until they're barely recognizable, then tossed aside once the next scandal grabs the public's attention. In this age's media, nothing lasts except for the image. That's all that matters. Because regardless of how many people decide to toss in their two cents -- and that's about all most of these so-called journalists are worth nowadays -- a picture's always gonna say a thousand words all by itself.
So I've seen this before. Plastered on every television screen -- on every newspaper and computer and gadget -- was, for a good long while, exactly this: the death of Captain America. Of Steve Rogers' broken, bloody body collapsed on the steps of the Federal Courthouse. As though I hadn't had a front row seat to begin with -- because I was there, watching, helplessly, as my friend, my brother got shot down -- I've relived one of the worst moments of my life, over and over and over again in the circus of the media...
And this island... This Tabula Rasa likes to pull a similar stunt. After Moscow... After experiencing, firsthand, the sort of mind games this place favors... There's a second where I wonder if this isn't really happening. If this isn't just another trick...
Except these aren't the steps of the Federal Courthouse. Nick Fury isn't yelling in my ear that this isn't part of the plan, or that I've got to get moving. There's nothing except the bright sun of afternoon and dead silence punctuated with the wet, gurgling gasp of a man trying to breathe through his own blood.
In all those times I imagined Steve showing up, never once did I envision it quite like this. I'm moving before I even realize I'm moving, taking comfort in action while my brain fights its way free of the shock of seeing my best friend about to die. My heart's in my throat by the time I get to his side, and when I reach out for him, I'm almost surprised to find he's solid underneath my hands. I push past it.
"Steve," I say on an exhale, eying his shoulder, checking for other wounds. Cataloging everything and anything -- the handcuffs, the blood. "Steve, c'mon. Stay with me, buddy."
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So I've seen this before. Plastered on every television screen -- on every newspaper and computer and gadget -- was, for a good long while, exactly this: the death of Captain America. Of Steve Rogers' broken, bloody body collapsed on the steps of the Federal Courthouse. As though I hadn't had a front row seat to begin with -- because I was there, watching, helplessly, as my friend, my brother got shot down -- I've relived one of the worst moments of my life, over and over and over again in the circus of the media...
And this island... This Tabula Rasa likes to pull a similar stunt. After Moscow... After experiencing, firsthand, the sort of mind games this place favors... There's a second where I wonder if this isn't really happening. If this isn't just another trick...
Except these aren't the steps of the Federal Courthouse. Nick Fury isn't yelling in my ear that this isn't part of the plan, or that I've got to get moving. There's nothing except the bright sun of afternoon and dead silence punctuated with the wet, gurgling gasp of a man trying to breathe through his own blood.
In all those times I imagined Steve showing up, never once did I envision it quite like this. I'm moving before I even realize I'm moving, taking comfort in action while my brain fights its way free of the shock of seeing my best friend about to die. My heart's in my throat by the time I get to his side, and when I reach out for him, I'm almost surprised to find he's solid underneath my hands. I push past it.
"Steve," I say on an exhale, eying his shoulder, checking for other wounds. Cataloging everything and anything -- the handcuffs, the blood. "Steve, c'mon. Stay with me, buddy."