8147/Ding Dong, Delivery at Camp

Ding Dong, Delivery at Camp
Date of Scene:	02 July 2019
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Steve continues to be the perfect lab gerbil as Howard tests a cutting-edge stun-stick.
Cast of Characters:	Captain America, Iron Man
Tinyplot:	Black Sun Rising

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Captain America has posed:
It turns out that a few of Howard's crates, while on the checklist, are not checked off -- travesty!!! No doubt the grunts formerly enamored with the man who is NOT Runwick are not longer enamored and whomever was driving the vehicle delivering the crates has likely been lambasted if not by Howard, by the camp aides.

But huzzah: here comes Steve with two large and heavy crates carefully held under each arm, both of which would normally require a team of two or three men to lift from the muddy ground. He's in his SSR uniform of drab olive-green with brass buttons polished.

"Howard? Found 'em," he calls out into the immediate area reserved for the scientist's work in the campsite.

Iron Man has posed:
Howard angles his frame backwards to look through the slant of open tent-flap at the returning Captain America. He's wearing one of his heavy protective smocks, some gloves. "Well found!" he calls to Steve, through the blowing flap of the canvas. He turns to gesture towards where they should go. "Glad to see the serum's still treating you with her favor," he observes of the muscle show. In the tent, he has a table occupied with a series of dull metal cartridges.

"Shield holding up as well as you?" Howard teases, well knowing the answer to that. It would take more than he suspects the Captain is capable of to cause that shield to fail. Hopefully they don't meet an enemy that can dent that: woe to them all.

Captain America has posed:
"Hasn't failed me yet. People seem perpetually surprised when I keep comin' at 'em," Steve replies as to the shield's insane durability. He stoops to set down each large crate and then dusts off his hands before wiping at the sides of his uniform. A bit of dirt clings and he frowns briefly at it before it disappears from the hem above his hip with a more pointed brush-off.

"'nd the serum seems to be holding." He looks at his hand musingly. "Still figuring out how to not snap a pencil when taking notes. Lost, what...four of 'em now." The Captain grins to himself, keeping the report good-natured; it's not a true complaint, just an observation. "Working on more ammunition for the AA guns?" It's a hazarding as Steve wanders over, thumbs slung in the pockets of his pants in a rare show of nonchalance around the scientist-inventor.

Iron Man has posed:
A deep, comfortable laugh slides from Howard, though it may feel slightly practiced. Much of what Howard does is measured and aware, socially very smooth and perfected. He often feels something of a salesman, a person that draws others in, and even if they recognize 'he is talented at this', that doesn't make him less convincing or charming. His laugh asks for others to laugh with him, to share, but doesn't require it.

"So your current request involves a sturdier pencil? I'll add that to the end of the queue," Howard says, in a joking manner. "After the war. Until then, gentle hands, like you were holding a woman," Howard recommends.

"No, these are for melee. Actually, your shield might make a good test to brunt against them. Bring that in here, we'll give these a go."

Captain America has posed:
Howard gets a flat oblique look from the blond soldier for his allusion towards inexperience, but Steve lets it go for now, tolerant of the man responsible for his current state of being.

Regardless of the tease, the lift of the Captain's wheat-gold brows signals interest even before he expresses it. "Never a dull moment around your tables, Stark. I'll go get it, we'll see how it holds up verses these...things." He turns to leave and as he exits the tent, he shoots over his shoulder, "Don't think Phillips will allow a vibranium pencil, so don't mind after submitting for one."

He's not gone for long and returns with the spangle-painted buckler already set and buckled on his arm. The SSR uniform hasn't been changed out -- it's like he expects to be able to handle anything Howard can throw at him. "Whatcha got then?" Steve asks as he meanders over to the table again, glancing from the inventions and to Howard.

Iron Man has posed:
"Yes, I always do what Phillips allows," agrees Stark, though there's no actual lean either way of it being a joke, or not. He's smarter than that.

When Steve returns, Howard is partially suited up: in that he has added a somewhat massive blast-mask to his attire, and has heavier protective wear on his arms. It's like he's expecting a bomb to go off in his face.

"Over here, please," Howard says, angling to draw Steve into a better position. And have his back NOT to any equipment, but to the empty zone beyond it. He picks up a long, baton-looking thing from the back of the bench, showing exactly what he's doing. "Green mark on green," he says, flipping the canister over, and inputting it into the front top of the baton.

"Just defend." Howard's no fighter, and it will show. But his strikes are confident and strong: not actually trying, though. He does swing the baton forward, to bonk the shield. Bonk. Nothing.

"And then eject," Howard says, squeezing the base of the baton, while holding it in contact with the shield, just after another swing.

With a roar of sudden pulse, the air expands around the baton, with a heave of forward pressure as the cartridge ejects an impact tremor of sizable scale.

Captain America has posed:
Thank god Bucky's off with the Commandos or perhaps flirting with Private Lorraine, she of the blonde bob and red lipstick and laughing eyes. He still might get that back-of-the-mind sense of warning that Steve's being foolhardy, given he's wearing none of Howard's level of protection.

Perhaps it's a balance of naivety and faith in himself in the end as the Captain goes where directed and takes up a grounded stance. The starry shield gleams as he lifts it before himself, its surface tarnished here and there by the black grit of deflected ammunition.

The first few strikes are simple and bounce from the vibranium shield as expected. Steve's grinning to himself, pleased to find that he can at least hold his own verses Howard in a physical melee if not in banter around the camp. Then comes the engagement of the canister at the tip of the baton.

The shield rings like a struck bell at the impact and Steve stumbles back a handful of steps, his eyes wide. No doubt it might be enough ruckus to draw attention. "Geezus, Stark, that's a helluva kick for such a small cartridge," he comments, clearly impressed.

Iron Man has posed:
The scientists in the next tent are far less impressed. The tent flap between them is jerked aside, in an explosive swirl of the papers that went everywhere in the next tent. "Apologies, old chap," Howard says smoothly to the angry Runwick, who simply GLARES and lets the flap fall closed. There's no real point in reprimanding the weaponsmith inventor. Runwick's assistant is scowling, moving around to try to scoop up their paperwork. "Pompous American Prick," Runwick mutters. They can hear him through the tents. Howard just grins at Steve.

Otherwise, some of Howard's belongings DID move, some things tipped over, but it is as if explosions are expected. They are.

"Surprising, too, is the key. Should be non-lethal, if there's a hostage or two around, so long as you don't hit them in the face with it." Stark ejects the other cartridge and loosely tosses the emptied stun stick to Steve. "Length okay? Weight?"

Captain America has posed:
Steve offers his own grimace-smile of apology towards the neighboring tent, especially in light of the snowfall of paperwork that scatters on the camp's muddied grounds. The insult hurled at Howard deflects from him as if he were vibranium himself and Steve shakes his head in what could be the beginnings of a professional fondness for the man.

He catches the baton with a cautious ease and hefts it. "It feels like a toothpick, weight-wise, but it hits like a charging bull." Extending it before himself, Steve does a few swishing gestures as if he'd mimic a fencing move. "Should stop somebody keen on coming in with a knife and make anybody else think twice after watching the beat-down. Surprised its integrity held with the discharge. Can you give the cartridge more kick without breaking the bat?" he asks, offering it back to Howard grip-end first.

Iron Man has posed:
"More that if it's someone other than you, doing that might break their wrist," Howard explains, accepting it by the grip. "Meaning, my wrists." He chuckles but nods, turning towards the bench to set it back down. "Can ramp one up for you, though. Give me a few hours, check back in," he says, squatting to dig through one of his other bins of parts, after shedding his protective mask and gloves onto the table. "I've got some communication technology tweaks to do first, but I should have time."

Captain America has posed:
With a quiet abashed laugh, Steve rocks back a step and nods. He unthinkingly tests the weight of the shield on his arm with a short heft. Its surface now sports a new if faint mark of impact from the stun-stick.

"I'll stop by after the afternoon briefing then. Figure if I can bring more strength to bear against something like...say, a tank or maybe someone who can take a hit and keep on comin', it'd be best for the team as a whole."

He falls silent for a short time, watching Howard fuss with the bins and speaks up again, this time with a note of hesitancy. "Spoke with the Princess last night. Miss Prince." If there's any amusement in him to be found at the potential for 'Princess Prince', it doesn't show on his face. Rather, he gives Howard a searching look. "She mentioned this magic business might be real. You figure the Nazis actually got hold of something...magical? I mean, it sounds..." His shrug is eloquent of his disbelief.

Iron Man has posed:
"All science seems magical until you understand it," Howard answers, with a smile and half-gesture to his magical stun stick, and then more specifically to the shield. "Look forward to seeing what the explanation is. Maybe we'll melt it down, end up with a spear to match the shield."

Howard then stands, and withdraws his pocket watch to eyeball the time. "That meeting is soon, isn't it. Always putting those right in the middle of lunch, they are. I think it is on purpose." Howard looks towards the other tents, as if contemplating his lunch choices. Fortunately, one of his assistants comes by, with a message; Howard accepts it, and instructs them to go fetch him some lunch: he's on a tight schedule.

Captain America has posed:
"Spears aren't really my thing, but it'd be interesting to see what turns up," the Captain agrees quietly. Another unconscious lift of his shield seems to settle an insecurity in him and he steps aside to let the assistant pass by him. He glances out into the camp proper beyond the lifted tent flap. "Scheduling's on purpose. Don't want us getting too comfortable over the canned meat and dried fruit."

Steve continues wearing the wry smile to go with his dry comment as he turns to leave the tent. He even offers a two-fingered salute from his brow. "See you in a few hours, Stark."