50Prologue
The music was familiar. Steve knew he recognized it—where from, he wasn't sure.
When had he heard it? Where was he? What century was it again?
His eyes fluttered open, and he blinked lazily in the bright mid-afternoon light. Hospital monitors quietly stood guard by his bed.
He raised his head slightly to look around. What was he wearing? A gown? An IV tube trailed off his bed from where it was stuck in his arm.
It was then he spotted the smartphone propped up on the side table across the room.
Trouble Man. Marvin Gaye. Twenty-first century.
Right.
His face felt slightly stiff from healing wounds; stitches trailed down from the corner of his lips, tugging when he moved his jaw. But warm golden sunlight poured through the window and gently pricked his skin, welcoming him back to consciousness.
Steve turned his head to the right. Sam was asleep, upright, in the bedside chair. A small smear of blood from a cut above his temple was still drying.
Steve felt a smile growing on his face. Rolling his head back up to gaze comfortably at the ceiling, he murmured, "On your left."
His voice sounded weak and far away, but Sam, ever the soldier, was awake in a heartbeat. For a moment stared at Steve, and then a soft huff of a laugh turned into a gentle smirk on his face.
Steve let his heavy eyelids drift shut again.
It was good to have company.
It was completely silent.
He sat in a metal chair, long strands of dark, matted hair falling around his face. His breathing and the whir from inside his arm were the only sounds in the dark room.
He was alone. No one had come. No one had been there for hours.
They wouldn't come. They weren't coming. It was only him.
He looked up, eyes dark and flashing.
He was alone.
tbc...
I can't take them on my own
My own
Oh, I'm not the one you know
You know
I have killed a man and all I know
Is I am on The Run and Go...
