[ The communications device is switched on, the picture on the screen shaking for a moment as he turns it over, checks it's on, and pulls it back to capture enough of him sitting at the edge of a bed in the basic passenger quarter. There is a pile of folded up red, white, and blue, the Captain America uniform especially made for him and his needs sitting beside him, the shield lying beside it, which he pats occasionally as if to ensure that they are still there, holding onto what it is that makes him who he is, the belongings for the world he knows.

His expression is as bemused as his voice sounds when he finally speaks. ]

This is Captain Steve Rogers of the - [ There's a pause, a false start, because he's actually part of the SSR, but as it's top-secret he swallows it back. ] - US military, pulled away from the middle of duty, and I need to find a way to be transported back there immediately. [ The confusion is replaced by something more confident, stern, and with an air of authority. ] Lives depend upon my return. I have a war to help win and I intend to do everything possible to make sure that happens.

[ The video feed shakes, the audio muffled as his hands shift around the device, the microphone picking up the interruption, and he looks around the room, so small and basic, and with another bed besides the one he assumes to be his. And then he looks down to the clothes he's been instructed to wear, the number on his arm, which he holds up and makes a point to show. It reminds him of some of the horrors that he saw in the concentration camps, the branded numbers upon their victims, turned into numbers. ] And I don't appreciate being referred to as a number, I have a name and I intend to keep it. Even the soldiers out fighting for their country are recognised by name alongside their ID number.

[Look who's just come back to the land of the living. He's disorientated; unable to feel even a fraction of the souls aboard the ship. He wants to put it down to...whatever it was that knocked him out. But he knows this feeling all too well. His limbs are heavy, reactions slow. And above all else, each spread of his wings, each attempt to move himself back to his assigned room, is a failure. It's why he's being forced to make this message, calling for the only person on the ship that he trusts to help him at a time like this.

Unfortunately Batman has no cell signal. So instead-]

...Dean, I need your help.

[A moments pause, and he's levering himself back to his feet, stumbling toward the door. There's a loud thump as the hand holding his device hits the wall.]

Please. It's...important. I think- I may have made a mistake.

[In a quieter voice-]

It wasn't Raphael.

[And then he's out the door, trying to regain his bearings so he can find his way back.]


ooc; /puts this up before she forgets consider this post open to action tags. I know demon!Sherlock has first dibs though >]

[A solemn young face wearing a disapproving expression appears on screen. She has on the issued jumpsuit, but with a man's overcoat that's clearly many sizes too big on over top of it.]

I am told we are on a ship and cannot leave it, and though we admittedly do not have much sailing in Yell County, I have seen pictures of ships and am not so easy as that to fool.

[A deep breath. There are no trials that cannot be overcome by a strong will and a sense of justice.]

It would seem I have also lost my traveling companions, and nearly all my money with them. But I have a good revolver and a California gold piece, and I would consider bartering them for a guide who knows his way around and possesses some skill in tracking, and who has half a head of sense.

And does not reek of whiskey.