Chapter One:

Steve Rogers's daily runs were never truly interesting. When he was in Washington, he ran around the Capitol. Now that he was back in New York, he ran from his apartment and around Brooklyn. It was the same route every time, everyday. His house, around his neighborhood and some nearby areas. Then, he'd run to the Brooklyn bridge, maybe Central Park, if the weather was nice. Finally, he'd stop at a small cafe on 6th Avenue and 22nd in the City, then go back home.

Sometimes, he would catch a glimpse of a familiar neighbor, or someone who recognized him and asked for a picture. Other than that, it was completely mundane.

That is, until one day, while he was running, he heard a few sounds of angry grunting. Pausing in his tracks, Steve looked around. The sidewalk was clear, mainly due to the early hours of the day, and that he hadn't been on a particularly nice side of Brooklyn.

Finally, he found the source of the sounds. An alley several feet in front of him. Charily, he stepped forward, taking a short glance in the alley.

There were two grown men standing over a adolescent African-American boy, laughing and kicking him. The boy was curled up, in order to block their blows, but that didn't stop them from stamping on his hand, or kicking other more sensitive places.

Steve stepped in easily, clearing his throat to make hisself known. The two men turned his way, sending harsh glares. One of them, with a cigarette bouncing between his lips spoke, "Th' fuck do ya want?" He jeered, and the other one's lip curled as he spit at his feet.

"I want you to leave him alone," Steve said, stepping closer. They were less than five feet away now. His voice strong and his eyes narrowed. The two men started laughing again.

"Mind ya own damn business," the other snapped, his dark eyes gleaming with danger. His hand dropped to his waist where he pulled out a switchblade.

Seeing the weapon, Steve rose his hands, but didn't move back nor did he more forward. "I don't want to cause any trouble," he told the two calmly. "Just leave him alone, and we'll all be on our way."

The cigarette one scoffed, "Fat chance of tha'!" The one with the knife lunged forward, aiming for his abdomen. Steve side stepped, grabbing his wrist and twisting it behind his back. The knife fell from his hand and the man cried out. This, however, only gave him cause to twist it further.

Finally, the cigarette one saw it fit to join this fight that his friend was so desperately losing. He snapped out his own blade, to charge at him. Steve kicked the man whose had he was twisting in the legs, and pushed him towards the ground. He fell flat, cradling his abused arm to his chest.

Steve caught the man by the wrist, and squeeze his hand until he let out a cry of pain, the knife dropping from his hand. Steve used this opportunity to pull him close while he drew back his arm. In one fluid motion, he punched the man square in the jaw.

The force of the attack left the man reeling, his eyes almost rolling back in his head. His buddy, who had finally gotten off the ground began to run, grabbing his good arm and dragging him away to flee. Soon, the two were out of sight and a safe distance from Steve and the boy.

Steve bent down, to help him up, but the boy swatted his hand away, "Get away from me!" He hissed, his voice coarse. "I don't want ya fuckin' 'elp." He tried to move, but winced, "God, Baron's gonna kill me..."

Steve rose his eyebrows, Baron? He stepped forward, but the kid glared at him, his brown eyes filled with anger. Steve raised his hands in surrender, "I'm not going to hurt you."

The kid grunted, and shakily stood up. He held his hand to his chest, hissing whenever he moved it. "Hey, hey, take it easy. Let me take you to a hospital. There's one fifteen minutes down the street from here, and—"

"I said leave m'alone!" He snapped, glaring ferociously at the Steve. Steve blinked, shocked, and the kid took this as a cue to run. Steve chased after him, but when he turned a corner, he disappeared from sight. After a few minutes of looking and finding nothing, Steve gave up. Maybe he would see the kid again later. Or, maybe he was homeless...

Steve sighed, running a hand through his strawberry-blonde hair. He had seen a lot of that since he had came out of the ice. For one, poverty rose tenfold, with it being almost as bad as the depression. Kids, younger than him pre-serum lived on the streets, and the orphan homes — now called 'Foster Care System' — had gotten somewhat better, somewhat worse.

Steve began to run again, making a mental note to add this area to his running route. Maybe, he would see the kid again, and get him some help. He had more than enough to offer and the kid definitely needed it anyway. Hopefully, the kid wouldn't get himself in any more trouble too.

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Tyron slipped his fingers into the middle-aged man's pocket, his hand easily seizing a wallet. In a quick motion, he took the wallet from the man and left. Tyron could tell by the quality of his suit that he was rich. Usually, people like him didn't keep pocket money on them, which nearly made him choose a different target. That is, until he saw the man give a homeless man a five dollar bill.

Tyron retreated to an alley, checking the wallet. Just as he thought, there was at least ten credit cards in it, most of them being made of metal, so Tyron disposed of them easily. He was getting a bit hungry after all, and those always proved to be a good snack. Tyron smirked when he pulled out two twenties and a ten dollar bill. Satisfied with the fifty dollars filling his pocket, he walked back out into the street. He still had a bit of daylight, but the clouds had been getting heavy. He would need sixty dollars to get back home, since Willy let him in the night before, even though he only had forty.

So, he continued down the street, easily spotting a preoccupied mother who had three children on leashes. Tyron's lip curled in disgust. People treating their kids like animals always made him upset. He supposed it was only karma that was coming to her. He shoved past the woman, trading wallets with the man he stole before, and hurried down the street. When he heard no shouts of anger, he allowed himself to chuckle.

Checking the wallet, he found twenty dollars, and a handful of dollar bills. Tyron shoved those into his pocket, and got rid of the plastic credit cards. He couldn't do anything with those after all.

Tyron tossed the wallet, running to be the daylight so he could get home.

- 0 - 0 - 0 - 0 -

Tyron met Willy at the junkyard entrance. He was leaning back in his chair, watching a video on his phone, however he turned it off when he noticed Tyron approaching. "You got'cha fee?" He grunted, the dim light that illuminated above him provided little to actually see the man. However, Tyron didn't need it. Willy was a 6'4" black man who wasn't afraid to throw punches with anyone if they bothered him. Tyron knew from experience.

"Yeah," Tyron replied nonchalantly, going through his pocket and fishing out the money he had made. Originally, it was a hundred, but those two guys who Baron sent him after took his forty bucks, leaving him with nothing.

He handed Willy the money, who fingered through it for a moment before nodding and opening the doors. The metal door creaked in its rusty hinges as it slowly turned and allowed him little room to squeeze through. Tyron didn't complain. It had been a long day, and his wrist was throbbing. The only thing he wanted to do was eat, then sleep.

Hopefully, Baron would think that he finished his job, and leave him for the night. He would rather deal with him in the morning, or better yet, never.

Tyron found his spot, the smell of oil and metal was a sweet aroma to his nose. It smelled like home, and he loved it.

His 'house' consisted of a few metal sheets that he had haphazardly duck taped, creating somewhat of walls and a door for privacy. The inside was bare, since he saw no real need to put anything up for decoration.

Tyron spotted a aluminum bar as he walked, and yanked it out from under the pile of metal. After examining it for any signs of rust, he was pleased to find none, and easily bit into the bar. He cleanly tore a part off as if it had been beef jerky, and consumed it. He liked aluminum, it was one of his favourite metals. Always left somewhat of a spicy aftertaste.

As he was halfway through his metal meal, he heard laughing behind him. Turning he spotted Weed, one of his few friends. He was laughing with one of the other members of the junkyard, DeAndre. "I tol' ya he'd do it!" Weed wheezed, having to support himself with his knees in order to keep standing.

"That's so fuckin' mental, man," DeAndre scoffed. "What the hell are you? A mutant?" Tyron froze, then sent a glare at the duo, but mainly towards Weed, who was still laughing.

"I tol' ya to not tell no one anymore, Weed!" Tyron snapped, marching over to the man. At the sound of Tyron's angry voice, he brought his laughing to a few chuckles, occasionally a cough, and looked at him.

Weed was one of the few white guys in the junkyard. His was skinny, and his head shaven bald, but he had a growing gray mustache and stubbly beard and his face long. His nose was long and pointy, and his eyes gray and red-rimmed from probably smoking too much. In between his lips was a joint that was half lit, and dying out. His hands were shoved into his pockets and he leaned back. He was quite stupid, and Tyron knew. Several times, he had tricked him into giving him a joint, or some coke for free, or for half the price he usually sold it for.

"Ah, don't be a buzzkill! We just lookin' for some fun," Weed assured him.

"I'm not jus' some kinda entertainment for whenever ya git bored," Tyron glared, turning to walk away from the men. Although his body language was angry, he kept a smirk on his face. Weed was a softie and enjoyed Tyron's presence and been relied too much on Tyron. Whenever he turned his back on Weed, he always had he same reaction.

"Ah, nah, Ty, don't be like dat!" Weed exclaimed, coming up to him. He draped an arm over his shoulders, and fudged something out of his pockets. "'Ere, now why don't'cha hush on up an' enjoy a joint, hmm?"

Tyron tried to hide his obvious smirk as he continued. "Well then, fine," he folded. "But don't be bringin' nobody else over 'ere, got it!?" Weed nodded, offering Tyron a lighter, and he lit his joint.

Tyron waved Weed away, picking up a bit more scrap metal, and heading into his little home. The metal shack was peaceful as he smoked and ate to himself, and then soon, called it a night.