Honestly with Noa's magic I'd be using illusion to Pavlov his ass. Sexist nickname? He gets to taste his own asscrack and hear tinnitus all day, or until Strange undoes it (which given that Strange would recognise her work and probably figure out why she did it and just let him suffer, is very low chance).
Honestly with Noa's magic I'd be using illusion to Pavlov his ass. Sexist nickname? He gets to taste his own asscrack and hear tinnitus all day, or until Strange undoes it (which given that Strange would recognise her work and probably figure out why she did it and just let him suffer, is very low chance).
That, and honestly "never intending to speak to Stark again" seems way easier. She's gone this long and only had to do it once, it's not unreasonable for Noa to think she can keep up that state of affairs indefinitely.
That, and honestly "never intending to speak to Stark again" seems way easier. She's gone this long and only had to do it once, it's not unreasonable for Noa to think she can keep up that state of affairs indefinitely.
I don't think Noa got to the point of being a financially-successful Jewish lesbian mutant lawyer by being the kind of person who picks battles she doesn't actually need to fight, though. Especially given her massive workload at the moment: when you're swamped with the legal aftermath of a decimated New York, who's got time to go out of their way to annoy Stark?
I don't think Noa got to the point of being a financially-successful Jewish lesbian mutant lawyer by being the kind of person who picks battles she doesn't actually need to fight, though. Especially given her massive workload at the moment: when you're swamped with the legal aftermath of a decimated New York, who's got time to go out of their way to annoy Stark?
While I agree with what you're saying, I just want to admire the way you just strung those adjectives together like that. Very zombie pirate ninja cyborg there. (Also a childish part of me wants to say something like 'to annoy Stark, one makes the time' but you're very correct as regards the amount of free time she conspicuously does not have right now)
While I agree with what you're saying, I just want to admire the way you just strung those adjectives together like that. Very zombie pirate ninja cyborg there.
Honestly, our brain kept trying to make it fit the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle" theme song in spite of it being, y'know, too many words and syllables.
...that actually reminds us that Noa almost certainly saw Splinter in an earlier chapter. The turtles could legitimately show up at some point.
To be fair, that depends on who you're spiting, and why. Often, when you're a persecuted minority, refusing to give your enemies the satisfaction of sinking into despair is a fairly accessible way to remind yourself not to give up on living your life. Spite is a powerful and useful emotion, in the right context.
That being said, fucking with Stark out of spite is not one of those useful contexts.
To be fair to Tony, he never coerced, blackmailed, or otherwise forced anyone into a relationship.
What he WAS, was someone who'd openly be chasing the next girl as soon as he caught the last one.
Sleezeball behavior, but not someone I'd consider a sexual predator. Someone with issues, and maybe someone who needs a sex therapist for his inability to commit. But someone who didn't hide what he was doing from any of the women he slept with.
Also I'd not be shocked if he didn't end up with 20 types of STDs, only to develop cures for himself.
(edit) Admitedly this is me, who grew up in the 80's/90's, so I might have a very different viewpoint from someone who came into adulthood recently.
Depends ...
There can be an implied pressure in some situations even if Tony genuinely didn't intend it and his other decision making wouldn't change as a result of it. And this is important because it makes it very hard to prove for sure what was genuinely consensual and what was inappropriate or even rape. Because both parties perceptions can be different.
There's an unresolvable power dynamic if Tony ever propositioned Stark Industries employees, or business partners.
Stuff like him sleeping with that reporter in the first movie could be questionable if the reporter was under the impression that this was basically the price for an interview.
Its not the same as showing up at a bar every night.
Honestly with Noa's magic I'd be using illusion to Pavlov his ass. Sexist nickname? He gets to taste his own asscrack and hear tinnitus all day, or until Strange undoes it (which given that Strange would recognise her work and probably figure out why she did it and just let him suffer, is very low chance).
And then Tony would be justified in completely and utterly destroying her in court, because she just assaulted him with magic unprovoked. Because that's not a petty prank between friends, that's the magical equivalent of punching someone in the face just because you don't like their tone of voice.
Tony Stark is doing her and Pietro a favour, one that requires his own valuable time for little direct benefit for himself. He literally didn't do anything that was worth assaulting him over.
Noa is a professional high powered lawyer. She's not a teenage SI from a petty spitefic.
To clarify I won't argue that it's comparable to assault, but would hazard a guess that "sleazeball" behavior towards a particular person that is consistent over time can be seen as a form of sexual harassment, culturally, if not legally. And doing so to many people is surely frowned upon now.
The question is whether Tony Stark (as portrayed here) actually stops, when women tell him, that this kind of language is misplaced, unprofessional, demeaning and makes them feel uncomfortable. And if they tell him that comes down to power dynamic.
That's why I said 'apologies years in the making' and not 'lawsuits', necessarily.
The matter is very sensitive, though, so please lets not derail this thread til heads get heated.
I normally didn't like to work while I was cooking. I had a fully equipped home office, yes, and I'd spread my work across my dining table on quite a few occasions in the past, I'd admit. However, it wasn't something I enjoyed doing — you kept having to split your attention between the papers and the food.
And even though realistically, all I had was a big ol' stock pot of chicken soup simmering away on the stovetop, it was still not a great environment for work.
Sometimes, though, you don't get the option to say no.
"Alright, so we're looking at…" I pulled out my planner and started flipping the pages, angling my head so the handset hung between my horn and my head at the right angle to speak into it easily. Hearing wasn't an issue; I could probably hear it clearly from the other side of the room, but the microphones were never that great on phones nowadays. "November is booked pretty much solid, and if oral arguments go the way I hope they do then I'm going to assume I'm going to be busy through the holidays and probably into February. I think it's looking like October will be the best month, let me see…"
"I do believe earlier in the month would serve best," Professor Xavier said over the phone line, accent crisp and clear despite the muddling effect of the phone line. "Perhaps the second Monday? That would be the eighth, no?"
"Let me take a peek," I said, flipping the pages. "Okay… it would have to be in the afternoon, I have a conference call with opposing counsel on an important matter that morning. Let's shoot for… okay, getting out to Westchester, I'll have to rent a car—"
"Would it perhaps be more expedient were I to send somebody to pick you up?" Charles asked. "It would be no trouble at all, truly."
"Could you?" I asked. "That would make things so much easier, and give me a definite time to force opposing counsel to not lollygag."
"It shall be arranged," Charles said with a chuckle. "I do believe Ms. Munroe would relish the chance to speak with you before the others get a chance to talk her up, as it were." Charles hummed lightly. "Although this does presuppose that she does not bring a student with her. She has been known to bring several along if she sees the opportunity for a teachable moment."
"I'll take that under advisement," I said. "Now, regarding the subject matter, I was thinking that —"
My front door started vibrating, in the way that only Pietro could send it shivering on his hinges.
"Is aught amiss?" Charles asked. I must have sighed into the handset loudly enough for him to pick it up. "You sound somewhat exasperated, my dear."
"No, it's… give me one minute, okay? I'll be right back."
I slid the handset back and off of my horn, then laid it on my chair while I walked to the front door. The difference between this and the usual would hopefully be enough to let Pietro know that I was a bit busy, and that I'd get to him when I could.
Then again, I thought upon opening the door and seeing Pietro once again just waltz on in like a normal person, maybe I didn't have to worry on that front.
"One minute," I told him, walking back to my dining room table and picking up the phone. "Charles, I am so sorry to just leave like this, but I have company who I promised I would help and have been putting off for most of a week now. Is it okay if I call you back…" I checked my calendar while I still had it open. "Are you free tomorrow night?"
"I am indeed," the good professor confirmed for me. "Shall I expect your call at approximately half past seven again?"
"Maybe a bit earlier, but let's shoot for that," I confirmed.
"Very well. I await your call, and wish you well!"
The phone line clicked dead, and I stood up to hang the handset back on my wall before turning to Pietro.
"I have not forgotten you, I've just been busy," I said. "Let me check how the chicken soup is—"
"Already prepared the matzah balls," Pietro said, drying his hands on a dish towel I hadn't noticed he'd grabbed. "You left recipe on the counter. Was not hard to follow."
"Including the rosemary and thyme?" I asked, crossing my arms. Pietro nodded gravely. "Alright. I'll get those going — the paperwork is still in the fax machine, go grab it, the white out, the typewriter, some paper, and some pens, alright?"
I blinked, and Pietro was gone. I shook my head with a smile and went back to my kitchen, where I picked up my ladle and started to dunk the matzah balls into the chicken broth, one to two at a time. In they went, two dozen little matzah balls, and once they were in, on the lid went, and I set an egg timer for forty minutes.
I never could figure out how my mother was able to get her matzah balls to be so light and fluffy. There was definitely a secret to it, but I just could not figure it out for the life of me. Oh, well. At least this way I could have a few matzah balls in every bowl of soup.
By the time that was done, Pietro had already taken back up his position at the dining table. Everything was there… except in the time it took me to get the matzah balls going, the paperwork had somehow duplicated itself.
I raised an eyebrow at Pietro, who grimaced.
"Is for Wanda," he said, and I barely suppressed the chill. "Better for her than with Erik and My—and Raven," he corrected. "Needs help."
What was I supposed to say to that? It wasn't like I could just say 'no'. Plus, Pietro had a point: being part of an organized group with proper infrastructure would help Wanda get the care that I agreed she so desperately needed.
"You're filling hers out," I told him. "I'll help you with the first one, teach you how to do it, how to phrase things. I will proofread hers, but you need to write everything. Okay?"
Pietro nodded, and we sat down at the table, paperwork arrayed before us.
"Alright, before we fill anything out, we go over everything," I said, tapping the pages with a capped pen. "You have to be careful not to lie on these documents, but oftentimes a later question will require more detail that requires you to go back and change a previous answer for consistency."
The first bit of the paperwork was incredibly simple: name, address, social security number, other personal identification number if you didn't have it. Really, it was like filling out the form for a passport or visa, at least at the start.
The second page was the beginning of the background check: place of birth down to the medical facility or street address, name of parents', name of any educational facilities attended all the way back to elementary school…
Page three, however, was where it got spicy.
"I… do not know this," Pietro said once he'd finished reading.
"It's an immunity clause," I told him. "Basically: the information provided here cannot be used against you in a court of law, now or ever. Any attempt to introduce this in a court of law is grounds for an immediate dismissal of all charges with prejudice. However, in exchange for this, you have to answer truthfully and in full — no invoking the Fifth Amendment, no right to remain silent."
I flipped a few pages ahead, humming in thought.
"You're essentially going to have to confess to criminal actions here, Pietro," I told him. "You're being granted immunity from any potential consequences in exchange for letting them fully evaluate you. Combined with this," I said, flipping over to pages eight and nine, which asked for detailed descriptions of his capabilities, "you're essentially going to be letting them know exactly where to look for any skeletons in your closet."
Pietro was silent as he stared at the paper. His fingers beat out a staccato rhythm on the wooden table, growing faster and faster until I couldn't distinguish the space between taps and it all drowned together into one constant, droning noise.
"If you do this," I told him, putting a hand on his shoulder, "there is no going back. Even if they say 'no', even if they turn you away, you cannot go back to Erik. And it's not just you." A hand reached around the side of the table pushed the other set of papers in front of Pietro. "It's Wanda, too.
"So I ask again: are you certain?"
Pietro's hands stilled.
Then, a long fifteen seconds later, he picked up a pen and started writing.
He moved at a normal speed — positively sedate, for him. But then, it felt deliberate. He went slow, not speeding up to his own pace, allowing himself to feel the full weight of his decision.
"Do you remember what your identification number from Romania is?" I asked Pietro.
"We are Romani," he said, shaking his head. "Do not have one. Green card."
"Okay," I said, pointing at a box to tick. "Check this off, then put the number from your green card here. Do you know Wanda's?" I asked.
In response, he pulled a wallet out of his pocket.
"… you keep her green card?" I asked, one eyebrow raised.
"She does not know she has one," he murmured. I nodded in understanding, then turned my eyes back to the paperwork.
"Page two," I said. "Need your place of birth and parents' full names, now."
"Did not live in a town," Pietro said. "Romani. Would closest town do?"
"It would," I confirmed. "Alright, parents' names. What was your mother's name?"
"Magda. I… hmm." Pietro frowned. "She had other last name. Married name. Before joining clan and becoming Maximoff, she said. Cannot remember, it was not Romani."
"Okay," I said, tapping on the table with my pen, even as something about that first name stirred a faint recollection. I'd heard it before, I knew I'd heard it before, but I just couldn't recall where. "Let's try and piece it together then, because they'll want it. Do you remember if it started with a consonant or a vowel?"
"Vowel," Pietro said confidently. "Started with one, sounded like another."
"Okay, that narrows it down," I said, pulling out a blank piece of paper and writing on it. I'd had to help witnesses through mnemonic devices like this before, so I knew how to help. "That means it probably starts with an 'ai', an 'ei', or an 'ou'," I said, writing them all out.
"That one," Pietro said, pointing at the middle option. "'Eis'…" He frowned. "It sound like 'ice heart', but another syllable in the middle? Sounded German?"
My breath hitched.
Magda, 'iceheart', and a German last name? That tickled my memory much more strongly. And in a way I very much did not like.
I suddenly had a bad feeling about this.
"Noa?" Pietro asked, concern leaking into his voice.
"Was the name 'Eisenhardt'?" I asked, hoping against all hope that I was wrong. "Magda Eisenhardt?"
"It—it was, yes," Pietro said, eyes wide with clarity and realization. "And my father's name, it was Max."
"Max Eisenhardt," I finished for him. That yawning pit of dread had completely bottomed out, and I could feel the beginning of anxiety starting to claw at my ribcage as the worst case scenario was confirmed. "Oh, shit," I whispered.
"What?" Pietro heard, clearly, and looked over at me with concern. "Noa, Mother said he was a Hunter. That he is dead."
"She was wrong," I said, mulling over how I wanted to approach this. "He is dead on paper, but he's very much still alive."
"How do you know?" Pietro asked, and I couldn't keep my face from falling at the sound of pure hope in his voice.
"I…" I wasn't sure how to say it.
"Noa, please."
I sighed.
"Because during Rosh Hashanah last year, my father introduced him to me as, and I quote, 'the man who would have been your godfather if I could find him'."
I put a hand over Pietro's, as gently as I could. He stared at me, eyes wide in shock and surprise.
"I, I think my dad formalized it at some later point. Probably during Yom Kippur," I said, though I wasn't sure why I was still talking at this point. "I'm not sure, he was talking around the issue a bit, and also more than a little drunk on shabbas wine—"
"He is alive?" Pietro asked. He held my hands in his own, his grip almost painfully tight. "You have spoken with him? And you, we—we are family?"
I took a deep breath to gather my thoughts. This was… delicate. Extremely, exceedingly delicate, and if I did this wrong… it could end badly. For a lot more people than just us.
"I…" I swallowed. "He is with Mossad. He's hard to pin down, but I think I can contact him." I looked my… my godbrother (I suppose I should just accept that) in the eye. "Pietro, he doesn't know your mother survived. Or that she was pregnant. He doesn't know you exist, and he's already buried one child."
Pietro's mouth fell open in a gasp. He looked like he wanted to say something, and I could feel the telltale signs of him speeding back up by the way his eyes flickered.
"Let me talk to Max," I said, raising my hands that Pietro still held in his own. "I can reach out, and talk to him. He deserves to have that closure, and you deserve to know your father."
Pietro had no words. He only nodded, staring at the paper in front of us. The space for his parents' names were still blank, so engrossed were we in our revelatory discussion that we never ended up writing anything down.
We shared a moment of silence, eyeing the page. The… I guess, confirmation gave us a newfound closeness, a sense of family that hadn't been there before. And I supposed that I had a new little brother, of sorts. And a little sister.
Wait, no. Two little sisters, I supposed. Didn't Erik say something about his daughter going to Charles' school?
… oh shit, I was going to be seeing her in a week and a half—
The egg timer went off, signaling that the matzah balls were done cooking, and that the soup was ready. I couldn't help but jump in my seat a little, and Pietro flinched in his chair.
"… did you want some chicken soup?" I asked.
Pietro's watery smile was all the answer I needed.
Saturday, September 29, 1990
Getting in contact with Erik was a simple affair, for me. I had a number that would reach either him or Raven, and when she picked up the phone, I left a message for Erik to call me urgently, and put the phone back down before Raven could kvetch at me.
He called back within the hour.
"We need to talk," I told him. "In person, and urgently."
"I shall be there presently," Erik said.
"Wait!" I yelled into the handset. "What we have to discuss — Erik, it could be… difficult."
"Difficult how?"
I didn't have a good response to that one, and he could tell.
"Very well," he said. "Where and when?"
And that was how I wound up waiting for Erik in Washington Square Park at four in the morning on a Saturday. I sat on a bench opposite the dog run's fence, and with another fence separating the walking path from the green around it.
This late at night, the park was rather tranquil, even with NYU's buildings surrounding it. With the university coming up on midterms soon, the density of students out and about at this time of night had petered almost to a stop. I still saw a couple of them milling around, but they were stumbling and bumbling so much that they had to have been drunk. Or high. Or both, actually. It wasn't like it was hard to secure access to marijuana or psychedelics while at NYU.
… okay, look, I may be speaking from experience, but I never used. That stuff just did not do it for me.
Regardless, the altered state of what few people meandered, combined with the late hour and cover of dark, meant that I was without my glamour in public. It was an odd feeling, really. Part of me kept expecting a cavalcade of drunken undergrads to spot me and run me out of the park. Another part of me whispered that I really should be using my glamour right now, regardless of how many people were around, solely because I was in public.
"A strange time for you to be awake," a smooth voice said as I felt the bench shake slightly from the weight of another person sitting upon it. "And to be showing your true face to the world."
"Sleep has been hard to find these past few months," I said with a shrug, turning to face Erik. "And I know you prefer to see me as I am."
Erik hummed his assent, and cast his gaze over the park. I winced when his eyes fell upon a drunken undergrad stumbling this way down the path, only to blink as the zipper of his windbreaker pulled him in a different direction entirely.
Knowing how little metal those had in them made me glad I had left my Star of David pendant at home, regardless of the fact that gold wasn't a ferrous metal. It wasn't like that had stopped Erik before.
"I find myself morbidly curious," Erik said. "You stated it was a matter of some urgency. And yet I find you in public, as opposed to the privacy of your home."
"I—"
My breath caught in my throat. I didn't want to say that I was afraid of his reaction, and wanted the security of a public space, where I could just step away if things went badly. Or that I didn't want him destroying my condo if he took this as badly as I worried he might.
Erik waved a hand, as if to shoo my concerns away with it.
"It matters not," he said. "Now. What do you have for me, my dear?"
"Two things," I said, leading with the softball. "I'm going to be teaching a seminar class at Professor Xavier's school in a week and a half." I looked him in the eye. "Lorna will be there."
Erik's breath came fast and ragged. The bench beneath us shuddered for just a moment, and then fell still.
Even so, I felt my pulse spike, and I could practically hear my heart racing. I licked my lips out of anxiety, glad I wasn't wearing anything more on them than a light coat of lip balm.
"… do not single her out," Erik said, carefully looking off into the distance. "If you have the chance — you… you might introduce yourself as her godsister, Noa. Your father formalized that over Passover." He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. "It… would be best, for her. To know that some vestige of family remains."
"Okay," I told him. "I will. She deserves to know."
"That was not the reason you called me out here," Erik stated.
"No, it wasn't," I agreed.
"Well?"
I took a deep breath and, looking anywhere but at Erik, I started to speak.
"I do not know the specifics," I began. "I'm learning this all very second-hand, but my source is as trustworthy as they come." I sighed. "I… still don't know if you'll want to hear this."
"In the choice between the ugliest truth and a beautiful lie, the truth must win out." Erik clapped a hand on his knee. "You spare me no pain by hiding this truth from me, whatever it is."
I took a deep breath, held it in for a count of three, then exhaled.
"Magda survived, that day."
Erik's sharp intake of breath accompanied the bench starting to shake again. I put my hands in a position so I could push myself up and off the bench, feet ready to dash away. Rarely have I been more glad that I chose to wear casual clothing and sneakers.
"Before you ask, I don't know how. But she lived, and fled back to the Romani. To hide from Hydra, I have to assume. They'd found you once…" I shook my head. "She was pregnant, Erik. Twins."
His breaths came heavy. The bench was shaking badly enough that I stood up and set myself across from Erik. And the worst part was, he didn't even notice.
"A son and a daughter. Their names," I said, mouth dry in terror, "are Wanda and Pietro Maximoff."
Erik froze. He didn't breathe. I saw his eyes go wide, and his hands start to shake.
Then I shrieked as the metal fencing all around us practically imploded, tearing at my clothes as it twisted in Erik's turmoil. The bench crumbled in on itself, wood splintering and fragmenting into sawdust and driftwood.
And there Erik stood, floating in midair as a wretched husk of tortured and twisted metal started to cocoon him.
"Erik!" I yelled, taking one step forward—
Something whizzed past me from behind, and I felt pain at its passing. I brought a hand to my side, feeling the rip in my top and a bit of blood come away with it.
I'd sat opposite the dog run, I realized. And now it was behind me — complete with wooden structures held together with metal nails.
I looked at Erik. He was pulling all the metal to himself. Hiding away from the world in his trauma. His mouth whispered words, that blank, thousand-yard stare I'd seen too many times in my father's eyes spreading across his entire countenance.
The ground cracked, and I yelped, flinching away from a stream of water rust coming out of the ground.
Oh, shit. Oh shit, he'd started pulling up the water lines. And looking around, the only reason we didn't have a crowd was because nobody was around, but that wouldn't stay the same forever. I had to stop this. I had to stop Erik.
Okay. Problem.
How the hell was I supposed to do that?
"Erik!" I yelled. "Erik!"
I felt something. Next thing I knew I was on the dirt footpath, another ten feet or so away, and feeling decidedly tender. I tried to get up, and coughed, hard — something hurt, oh God, something really hurt. Shit, shit, shit.
"Erik!" I tried to yell again. "Max!"
The metal stopped moving. I pushed myself up with a cough, and pulled my focus out of the jacket pocket I had it and my keys in. It glowed with a dim light, and I felt my aches lessen somewhat.
"Max," I said, switching to Yiddish as I kept talking. "Please, please be listen to me. Remember where you are. You're in the city."
His hands were still shaking, I could see. And he was crying. But he was… maybe not listening, but he could hear me. The thousand yard stare wasn't gone, but it was less.
This was a risk. A big, stupid risk.
I walked closer, gasping at the pain in my chest. Ow, shit — what had hit me? A post? A chunk of wood?
"We're in the park," I spoke. "It's me, Noa. I know you can—" I coughed, gasping. Oh God, it hurt.
I coughed, and coughed. It was the worst pain I'd have felt from just a cough, and it was getting a bit harder to breathe.
"N-Noa? Noa!"
There was a great big clang sound, the clattering of metal on metal, metal on gravel, metal on wood… it all blurred together.
Erik's arms were around me. He picked me up, held me tight against his chest, and started walking.
"T-tail," I murmured, feeling it drag along the ground.
A moment later, he had my tail draped over his other arm.
Erik carried me back to my home, and set me down gently on the sofa. I still held my mezuzah focus in one hand, and started to gather my magic, directing it inward.
By the time I felt the pain in my chest start to ease up, Erik was already tapping at my side with an iodine-soaked cotton ball, and I flinched at the contact.
"I'm sorry."
I didn't have a response. I just focused on my magic, on helping myself get well. It was slow, painfully so, and I was probably going to be feeling this for the entire weekend. My hands were scraped, and I only didn't have road rash from the footpath because I landed on my scales. The cut in my side had stopped bleeding, at least, and —
Wait. Shit.. I would probably need a tetanus shot for that.
"I will… talk to them," Erik said. "The twins. My, my—" His voice cut off in a strangled breath.
He was silent as he finished cleaning my cuts and scrapes, and bandaged the cut on my side.
"They are trying to leave, aren't they?" Erik asked. "To leave… leave Magneto behind."
I nodded.
"Good," he gasped. "It, I—" Erik stumbled over his words. "I cannot put them in danger. Not like Anya," he whispered.
I reached out a hand to Erik. He took it, and held tight.
"I can't. I can't. Not. Again."
Monday, October 1, 1990
Erik doted on me through the rest of the weekend. I think he slept on my sofa for a few hours tops, whereas I didn't wake until past two o'clock.
I felt sore, and stiff, and still in pain. I'd gotten a tetanus shot courtesy of the maybe fifteen minutes Stephen had free, and he'd been oddly gleeful the entire time I visited him.
Regardless, work waited for nobody. I still felt like I'd been put in a dryer on high spin cycle, but work beckoned.
And more importantly, it was the day Sophie was out of the office. I wasn't sure I could trust Joshua anymore without either myself or Sophie in the office — and I hated that. I hated that so much I couldn't even put it into words. But that was just how things were, for the moment.
After a tense day of work, and treating Matt and Foggy to a nice dinner at the Palm (which Joshua had to miss out on because he was not out of the dog house yet), I made it back home around eight o'clock. I went to check my mail, and found nothing. Which was a bit odd, for a Monday. But, oh well.
Up the two flights of stairs I went, and fingers tapped on my mezuzah before anything else. Content at the lack of reaction, my key went into the lock, and—
The deadbolt wasn't set.
I knew I'd turned the deadbolt before I left this morning. And when Erik came by, he still always set the deadbolt, or left a signal to let me know he was inside. But the deadbolt wasn't done, yet the ward Stephen put mezuzah told me all was clear.
I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a small tin of pepper spray I kept in there, and let my focus float up and out of the confines. A bit of focus and the tip lit up, illuminating the area in front of me, and ready to become something ever so slightly dangerous enough to cause the average human pause — the most I could do, really.
I turned the key, opened the door, and looked into my apartment.
Then flinched when a voice spoke.
"Ah, Ms. Schaefer! How kind of you to join me!"
My pulse pounded in my throat. I rounded the corner to my dining room, following the voice — and froze.
The man had pepper-black hair slowly losing the war against salt, offering him a dignified look I'd seen several other women call 'silver fox'. A scar cut across his face, a large part of it hidden underneath an eyepatch. He wore a pure black suit and tie, a crisp white shirt practically shining against the rest of his outfit. A trench coat draped over one of my dining room chairs completed the look as much as the aura of calm confidence he carried about himself did.
In front of him at the table sat my computer, pulled out from the second-bedroom-turned-office, identifiable by the little gecko sticker I put on the side.
And turned to face me, set upon the table, was a folder, emblazoned with the unmistakable logo of SHIELD.
SCHAEFER, NOA CODE MERLIN
CODE XAVIER
CODE SATURN
"Please."
Nicholas Fury — for who else could this be? — gestured to one of the chairs at my table set opposite him.
"Have a seat."
So today has been one up and a lot of downs.
Good news, I had the time on a plane ride to bang out a new chapter.
Bad news: the plane ride was to get back across the country for an in-person interview.
Which sent me an e-mail 30 minutes after I was in the air canceling the interview with the standard form of 'we are moving forward with another candidate'.
I...
I am so, so tired of this. That's another 6 irons in the fire and none of them produced anything, and at this point I don't know what I'm doing wrong. I don't know whether to scream or cry.
I'm tired of linking this. But if you want to toss a tip to your author, my Ko-fi page is right here. Now if you'll excuse me... I'm gonna drown my frustrations in Chinese food and ice cream.
Saturn had wealth, sure, but he also had time and Noa has tended to make correct decisions without anything to support them. They may suspect her of temporal cheating.
Sure you can. This is almost immediately post-Galactus, so in the name of national/world/inter-dimensional security, the thinking is that proactive over-reacting is better than just mindlessly following protocol.
I still remember how a lot of law enforcement parameters were expanded in the immediate aftermath of 9/11; many of them were even codified by the Patriot Act.
Saturn had wealth, sure, but he also had time and Noa has tended to make correct decisions without anything to support them. They may suspect her of temporal cheating.
Moreover, Noa is nowhere near rich enough to have be noticeable. Saturn's most noteable domain not shared by Pluto or Ceres was time, and time traveling is the last most notable trait Noa has that SHIELD would suspect. They just don't know about the extra caveat on top of the time traveling.
And she's been investing hasn't she? That's absolutely something SHIELD would be looking for because that's just time travel 101. She probably flew under the radar until now, but calling attention to herself like she did with Tony got SHIELD looking at her and then it was blindingly obvious.
Which sent me an e-mail 30 minutes after I was in the air canceling the interview with the standard form of 'we are moving forward with another candidate'.
Fury: "What are you talking about? If we didn't just 'show up', we'd never get anything done. We're a Spy agency. We can't exactly ask if people are OK with us (most likely illegally) going through all their belongings and records while planting video and audio recorders/transmitters all over thier home."
Fury: "What are you talking about? If we didn't just 'show up', we'd never get anything done. We're a Spy agency. We can't exactly ask if people are OK with us (most likely illegally) going through all their belongings and records while planting video and audio recorders/transmitters all over thier home."
