16 Is anybody out there gonna take your hand?
I was going to post this on Tuesday, but I realized that I hadn't actually finished the new title card.
About that;
16 Is anybody out there gonna take your hand?
"When I was n-nine," Maxime said, "there was this mass testing project. Mass blood testing. We were told there had been an outbreak of...something." She ran a hand through her dreadlocks. "I don't...I don't remember the details."
"That's okay," Agent Daisy Johnson said. "It was a long time ago. No one expects you to do any better."
The Frenchwoman gave her a wan smile and went on. "Then, a few months ago, s-s-ome people came to me after I came home from a protest. They were waiting. They had a s-s-yringe. When I woke up," her eyes went unfocused. "They were doing things to m-me -"
Daisy reached across the table and squeezed the girl's hand. "It's okay. You're safe here."
Maxime nodded.
"Know what?" The agent got up, found a bottle. She tipped some of the contents into the kid's glass of hot cocoa. "Doctor's orders. Drink up."
"Merci."
SHIELD had installed Maxime and her security team in a safehouse with a nice view. Someone had decided that what their little...witness needed most was the knowledge that she was free. (As well as some time out of the limelight while France yelled at them.) They even gave her a bike and some spending money, to go down to the village if she felt like it. Johnson had caught her just staring out the window on more than one occasion.
"There were four of us, that I knew about. I saw the file, once. They called us the Cuckoos."
Her hands curled around the mug.
"I'm, I'm not sure what I can do-"
"We'd like to find out."
She watched the Frenchwoman curl up like an armadillo who doesn't want to get out of bed, and her eyes flickered around, looking for escape routes.
"It's voluntary, of course." She poured some of the brandy into her coffee. "You can just stay here. Or leave. We'll even give you a ride back to your parents."
"I-I-I don't want to..." She faltered, staring at Daisy.
Must not have my face neutral enough.
Maxime swallowed, and whispered. "I can't."
Daisy nodded, something starting to ache in her belly. "I don't want to pressure you. But-"
She was going to have to say it, wasn't she?
"Do you want to leave the other Cuckoos behind?"
Wanda flinched. "N-no."
Johnson raised an eyebrow, and waited.
If I wanted a cleaner conscience, I would've got another job.
She took a sip of her coffee.
Like being a lawyer.
"Okay, but-"
"But what?"
"But only if you teach me how to fight."
Daisy blinked.
Good idea.
"Okay."
-/-
It wasn't just the muscles, or the good looks, or the flowing blonde hair, Eamon decided. Thor had charisma.
He had looked up the God of Thunder ahead of time, and learned that he was also a God of Fertility. Which might explain why Irene's body felt like someone had installed some kind of Thor-magnet deep in her guts - there was some kind "attractive" pun there - but Eamon wanted to hang out with him too.
In fratboy-speak, he just seemed like a bro.
Sitwell had grumbled about putting personnel at risk, but he had stuck to the script. Thor, reduced to a mortal, landed in New Mexico, made friends with an cute astrophysicist, her rather buxom intern, and her Swedish father figure, then snuck into the SHIELD installation to try and retrieve Mjolnir. Upon failing, he grew despondent, was captured by SHIELD, interrogated fruitlessly, and then talked to an empty room. He was released, his pals came looking for him, and the town was attacked by the Asgardian equivalent of the Terminator, except with face lasers. Upon sacrificing himself to save everyone in town, his weapon flew to his hand and his powers were restored.
What happened then could best be described as "Hammertime".
And now, as he strode through the remains of the Destroyer - such a nice, friendly name - to meet his friends, Irene picked up a case and tagged along behind Sitwell.
She was last on the list, after the banter with Dr. Porter, and informing Sitwell that he knew he was just doing his job (and clapping a hand on the agent's shoulder that nearly sent him to the ground). Then the prince-god turned to her and...hesitated. "I don't think we've met."
"Loki's gone mad. The Bifrost may have to be destroyed to keep it from destroying Jotunheim. Or you try and can figure out an alternative, but only if you don't have to waste time trying to take down Loki. In fact, you may be able to stop him ahead of time."
The Asgardian's mouth was hanging open, exposing his perfect teeth. "Are you some manner of sooth-"
He felt...keyed up. Manic. "Mr. Thor, let me introduce you to our line of stunning products."
Why couldn't he stop grinning?
"First we have the dendrotoxin gun, informally known as the ICER. Next, we have a choice between the XCOM Sonic Stunner, and the Vanko Arc Thrower, patents pending."
He snapped the case shut.
"But wait, there's more! We've turned it up to eleven, so they may be able to disable your brother!"
"Ah," said the prince-god, who knew a sales pitch when he heard one. "In return for what?"
Irene grinned even wider.
-/-
The rest was silence.
Plus some teleporting gods.
Eamon stared at the mark on the ground the Bifrost had left. He had extracted a promise from Thor to open negotiations, a possible trade or military agreement. If this worked, if this worked, he might've prevented the deaths of thousands of people in New York. The Avengers would never form, would never need to. Of course, there was no reason Loki's benefactor couldn't just find another Cat's Paw, and invade anyway. And if he did, even more people might die, because he had introduced too many variables to predict. In fact, he was a vari-
"Hey," someone said, at his elbow, and he left off worrying his lip. It was Porter's intern, Darcy.
"I, ah...saw you making eyes at my girl's man," she said. "We gonna have a problem?"
Eamon stared. The pale-skinned brunette offered about as much threat to him as a mosquito, but he didn't feel much like laughing.
"No. No problem."
"Good. Because I'm pretty sure you could take me."
He stared, then snorted, then outright belly-laughed, his tension vanishing like a pricked soap bubble. The younger woman watched him with a smile on her face.
"Want a drink?"
"Sure." Eamon dragged a hand down Irene's face. "I think I could use one."
As they trudged toward the car, Darcy said "Aaand you're going to need a lot more."
Irene looked askance.
"Your big fancy base. The one you had setup around Thor's hammer. You're going to have to move it to the transporter pad here. Which means-"
"Paperwork," Eamon groaned. "Please tell me your bar serves Jack."
-/-
Tony?" said Schmidt.
"Director?" Tony looked up from his desk. "Come on in. I was just going over Vanko's designs -"
"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Vanko?"
"The designs." She slumped into one of the chairs in front of Tony's desk. "They're too complicated."
The engineer blinked. "Maybe I'm mistaken, but I'm pretty sure that's what you pay me the big bucks for."
"No, wait, let me explain." She yawned. "The pulse weapons are a big hit, by the way. Nice to have an option between regular ballistics and frickin' laser beams. Especially since you can still put suppressors on them."
"Thanks, but can we get back to the 'complicated'?"
"Here's the thing, Stark, XCOM isn't just about fighting aliens, or researching their tech. We're supposed to be providing the seeds of an insurgency, in the ev -"
"I read the LOOKING GLASS brief. Kinda dry. Not exactly going to knock 50 Shades off the bestseller lists."
Schmidt paused to hold back a snicker, then continued. "Our current weapons technology isn't...very good for that sort of thing."
Stark bristled.
"I'm not saying it's not good for our current needs. That is, when our forces can come back to our base every mission and hand them over for maintenance. But if we lost -"
Tony leaned back in his chair. "Then any caches we have are going to break in about five minutes." He winced. "In my defense, I blame Irene."
"It's just tunnel vision, Chief." Schmidt shrugged. "I didn't notice it either. In fact, it wasn't until I saw how the HYDRA cell worked-"
"What?"
"The attack on the military convoy in France. A cell was activated, and they were armed with low-maintenance laser weapons, plus a few more goodies. No body armor, no overwatch, and they still managed to take down a dozen highly-trained soldiers. Interrogation suggests they hadn't even met before then."
"So you want me to make a laser AK-47?"
"Basically, yes. Start small. Add-ons for common conventional weapons." She drew her Colt from her back holster, and put it on the desk.
"Unloaded, of course," she said, setting the magazine down next to the gun Tony was now staring at like it was a rattlesnake before it had its morning coffee. "I've heard some interesting things about noise-cancelling. See if you can do anything about that. And Stark?"
"Yeah?"
She got up. "It's a puzzle, not a problem."
"Got it. And, uh, Boss -"
The Director paused in the doorway.
"I...We have enough of the alien alloy now for me to take a shot at a side project." Tony tapped his stylus on the desk absently. "We want to try and make Captain America's shield."
"Stark-" Schmidt said, and stopped, because she didn't actually have anything more to say.
Tony winced. "I know, I know," he said quickly. "It's not going to be the same as the original. But it could be useful in combat. If we customize the software -"
"Stark-" said Schmidt again, and then "okay."
"-The same as the Super-Soldier - wait, what?"
She smiled. "Okay, I said."
"Oh. Okay. Wow. I'd...I'd better get on that. And Director?"
"Hm?"
"Did they ever find the original? Or, y'know, Cap?"
Schmidt looked thoughtful. "No, I don't think they ever did."
-/-
Eamon was passing a doorway in the new SHIELD base when she heard Sitwell say "I don't trust Starkos."
Well. That was interesting.
He leaned against the wall outside, and continued to listen.
"She's a wild card. Comes out of nowhere, and she's an intelligence asset?" You could almost hear the dubious head shake. "I don't think she's good for operational security."
Pause for reply.
"I understand that, sir, I just..." Beat. "I'll keep an eye on her, yes. But I don't like how she's throwing off the math. Aliens were bad enough, but...Gods?" He ran a hand over his shaven head. "I didn't sign up for this."
"None of us did," Irene said.
Sitwell jumped as she entered the room. "Ir-Liason Starkos! I was just -"
"Sharing concerns with your superior." Eamon relieved the cringing Agent of his phone, tapped the SPEAKER button, and handed it back. "I held back, and my friend died. I tried to make amends, and broke my cover in the process. And since XCOM doesn't take kindly to folks trying to execute their prisoners, they shipped me here for SHIELD to keep an eye on me. Got it?"
"G-got it."
"Good. Glad we could clear that up."
-/-
The psionic testing chamber consisted of a circle of a half-dozen modified sensory deprivation tanks, with a big window overlooking the whole operation.
"Isn't there any other way to test for this stuff?" Tony asked. Down below, Vahlen was being helped into one of the tanks. She looked...vulnerable. And small.
"This is the other test," Marceau snapped. "We've already identified what might be the 'X-Gene' in several of our personnel. But...Xavier had such a small sample that there might be other variants we're missing. Or maybe it's not about genetics at all, but something else that we can't even begin to measure. Unless France are going to share how they found that witch of theirs-"
The normally-affable Belgian glared into the chamber like it had done him a personal insult.
"But we do know that Vahlen seems to have it, and we know she has psychic powers. Some mind-reading, pyrokinesis, who knows what else?"
Down below, the Doc looked at her number two, and gave him a brave little smile and a thumbs up. He flinched.
"Worried about her?"
"Of course! We're about to lock her in a box and them bombard her with radiation waves we can barely tell exist. Absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, and mumbled something.
"What was that? Sounded like 'can't live without her'."
Marceau looked up at him, and Tony could almost hear the gears turning. "I said 'we can't do this without her'."
"What's the difference?"
The Belgian stared some more, and squared his shoulders, like he had come to a decision. He looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, and said "Tony, have you ever -"
Uh-oh, incoming Feelings.
"Yeah, I was in one of those once." He jerked a thumb at the test chamber. "Fun. 'Course," he smiled at the fond memory, "mine could hold two people."
-/-
The Venezuelan situation was getting worse. The riots were growing more frequent, only fueled by what the protesters felt was a...heavy-handed use of force.
After two days of riots, the government's patience was growing thin, along their ability to literally and figuratively put out fires. The President authorized the use of emergency measures, and XCOM's riot-denial systems rolled out in Maracaibo.
They weren't all that dissimilar to other sonic weapons, really. The main difference was that they could be mounted on and powered from much smaller vehicles. Nonetheless, there was one sitting on the comms van when Zavala poked his head in.
"Hey, Medina?" he said. "I hear they got coffee at the bakery."
The technician in the van looked up. "Can you get me some?"
"Sorry, gotta stay near the front lines."
Medina swore, and ran a hand over his face. "All right, I'll go myself. Can you keep an eye on the van?"
"Sure."
When the technician came back, the cop was sitting in his chair.
"Did you touch anything?"
A snort. "Do I look like someone who knows what any of this stuff does?"
"Actually, where are you from?"
"They shipped us in. Name's Zavala" The cop frowned. "Though it looks like one spot's as bad as another."
"I hear ya."
"Anyway, back to work. I hope these...folks don't start something today."
"Me too."
Medina soon forgot about the incident with Zavala. Which meant that when the police turned the sonic system on the protestors several hours later, he completely failed to notice that several of the settings had been changed, a knob moved here or there. As it happened, Zavala - who no one had ever seen before or would see again - did know what "that stuff" did. Better than most of the people operating it, who were going off of XCOM's simplified manual.
So when a protester - who no one ever saw before or would ever see - again kicked off the riot later, the sonic projectors did not cause discomfort.
Well, not just discomfort.
-/-
After the first rock got thrown, Claudia had started to edge out of the crowd. This wasn't her first protest, and it wasn't the first one to turn ugly. She kept one eye on the pacos, and noticed the dish on their communications van turning toward the angry crowd as more rocks flew; what, was their communication van going to radio them into submission?
As it happened, the answer was "not exactly"
The first sign was a faint twinge across the bridge of her nose, spreading quickly into a throb that she could feel in her bones. The nausea came next, then the dizziness, then the screams.
She saw someone, their eyes barely visble above their bandana, start to weep blood. It was coming from their ears too, and she touched the sides of her head by way of experiment. They came away red, and she winced. The sounds of the panicking crowd sounded...off. Did...did she have hearing damage?
This is the part where people get trampled.
Somehow, she found herself at the side of the street, in a recessed doorway. It gave her some cover from the sonic weapon the police had turned on them, but she still got to watch people fall to the ground, foam pouring from their lips. She saw blood pouring from noses, ears, eyes. She saw someone's eye pop like a balloon-
She closed her eyes.
She didn't want to see any more.
Mother of God.
-/-
"God Almighty," Schmidt whispered, her face white, as she stared at the screen in her office.
It was, perhaps, more terrifying for the protestors than bullets might've been.
Tony's jaw set. "Jo, what's the damage?"
"Vision impairment, internal bleeding, brain damage, auditory damage, seizures." Beat. "Two deaths."
Bradford looked away from the screen. "Is this...our fault?"
"I've checked the settings. They had them set well outside the limits we gave them in the manual. Venezuala claims they had calibrated them properly earlier. Either they're wrong, lying, or someone changed it later."
"Any evidence of sabotage?"
"I'm not sure that it matters." Schmidt cleared her throat, and glanced at the intel from SHIELD. "What does matter is that panic has increased in the country. Riots have escalated, there's angry mobs outside the President's mansion, lots of police have just...walked off the job. There's even surprisingly accurate rumors about where those weapons came from."
"Great, that's just what we need. What about us? How's everyone taking it?"
"There's a lot of guilt. Confusion. Some feel responsible."
"We need to get someone to check them out," Tony declared. "Isn't Pena in the area?"
Schmidt, uncharacteristically, grinned. "He certainly is."
-/-
The President of Venezuala had been putting in some long hours lately. No one was sure if that was because he was trying to shore up the disintegrating situation, or because he didn't want to show his face in public.
Even he wasn't sure.
He had been staring vacantly at the paperwork for who knew how long, wondering whether his country counted as a widening gyre or a narrowing one, alternating between swigs of scotch and antacid, when his aide poked his head in and informed him that the representative from XCOM was there.
When he was shown in, the man walked in a strange fashion - ah, yes, his prosthetic. He slumped into the chair, and declared, in an Argentinian accent, "We have a problem".
"We certainly do." He indicated the half-empty glass on the desk. "Drink?"
"No, thanks. Perhaps I wasn't clear. We -"
He pointed rapidly back and forth between the two of them.
"- Have a problem. You and XCOM."
It was strange. He could swear the ground was shifting under his feet. "Eh?"
"Your people screwed up, and people died."
"That was an accident!" the older man protested. "Perhaps if we had been given more training."
"Perhaps. But as I see it now, you have two options. Let us retrain your men-"
Funny. His ulcer seemed to be acting up. "We can't spare any personnel for, for, retraining!"
"Let us retrain your men, or lose XCOM support."
"I..." The President ran his hand through his rapidly-greying hair. "I do not think that is very funny, Director Pena!"
"That is because I am not joking." The soldier sat up. "I am authorized to withdraw all training, supplies, even defense. XCOM reserved that right when it was created." A thin smile - he was enjoying this. "Perhaps you should've read the fine print."
The older man stared. Then he reached out, plucked the glass off the desk, and drained it. "Do you know what that would do to my people?"
Pena snorted with contempt. "We've seen what you do to your people. Personally, I think you are concerned about the oil."
The President refilled the glass. "Tell me, sir, are you 'concerned' with the blood pumping through your body?"
Pena's eyes narrowed.
"And would you have us live on coffee exports alone? Hm? We must restore order, or the country will topple into economic ruin-"
"And if you can keep it propped up, what's a few bodies in the foundations, eh?"
The politician's grip tightened on the glass. "Get out of my office," he ground out.
"With pleasure, sir." He stood up, straightened his tie. "We will have your answer in a week."
The statesman waited for the soldier to slam the door shut before he buried his face in his hands.
His ulcer was definitely acting up.
-/-
"Greetings, Director," said the Councilman.
Schmidt had long ago realized that she had no idea where her boss actually was, so she had settled on a nod, and a polite "Councilman." She had also settled on parade rest; relaxed, but still alert.
"We've received...criticisms, Director," said the shadowy man, and waited. Unfortunately for him, she was highly familiar with that trick. Imply something, give them enough rope to hang themselves. They might even reveal more information than you knew about.
She went with "Sir?" and a slight cock of her head.
"Certain members of the Council feel your actions may have been...heavy-handed. Perhaps even insulting."
"You'll have to specify, sir."
A sigh. "Did you threaten to withdraw XCOM support of Venezuala?"
"I informed the President that his support by XCOM could not be selective, yes."
"We feel you're overstepping your remit, Director."
"Sir, we've both seen the reports. The police arent exactly treating their citizens with kid gloves."
"You need to stay focused on the bigger picture, C-"
"If there's anything I've learned in my life, it's that the big picture is made up of smaller pictures." A deep breath. "Would you like me to tender my resignation?"
A long pause.
"That won't be necessary." Did he sound taken aback? "We would simply like to make sure you remember that XCOM is a military organization." His tone went edged. "Not a political one."
Schmidt's hands clenched behind her back. "Sir. I strongly doubt the President will call our bluff."
-/-
The redheaded American smacked El Presidente de la República Bolivariana de Venezuela lightly with a pillow. "I have an idea."
He rolled over and looked at her. "Please, I am still sore from your last one!"
"Perhaps you are getting old. If you would like to stop this, for the sake of your old bones -"
He reached for her, and when they came up for air, she grinned and said "Not that old, then."
"I certainly hope not." His eye, idly, rolled around the hotel room, the empty champagne bottle, the remains of the food service tray.
"My idea isn't about-" she trailed her finger down her body "-us. It's about work."
"Eh?"
"I've heard how those X-Force people held you over a barrel. And I was thinking...what if you could relieve the pressure in certain areas? Free up some of your men so they could be trained properly?"
"With what?"
"My firm invests in several areas, including a private security contractor called Aegis."
"Ah." The politician laid back. "Mercenaries."
"Private security contractors," the American corrected, gently. "They can do things like, I don't know, guard politicians, do regular foot patrols."
"You want me to bring in a bunch of cowboys?" He snorted. "I doubt my people are going to like it."
"Say the oil companies made you do it. And besides -" she shrugged, "it's not like things can get much worse."
His ulcer twinged.
-/-
"Moving on. We are concerned that allowing Dr. Vahlen to remain at your primary base is an unacceptable security risk."
"I think it's quite acceptable. We already know she's friendly. And, frankly, we still need her in Research, despite what we say on paper. Marceau's effectiveness seems to drop without h -"
Schmidt's mouth hung open.
"Director?"
"Sorry. Sorry, I just...I just realized something." She tried not to grin. "I believe Interim Research Director Marceau has strong feelings for Moira. Whether friendship or romantic or both, I don't know. But it's just another argument in favor of keeping her here. I mean, we certainly can't afford to train someone else at this point."
"Speaking of such, we've heard unconfirmed reports that you and Commander Bradford are in a relationship."
The Executive Director of the Extraterrestrial Combat Unit, a top-secret agency backed by the world's major governments created to research and address the alien threat, commander of dozens of the world's deadliest men and women and experimental technology, blushed like a schoolgirl.
"Uh..."
-/-
The older Aboriginal gentleman who was talking to Barton had a large white beard, dark skin baked by the sun into leather, a football jersey, and a cell phone currently displaying a paused game of Angry Birds.
That could probably be taken as a metaphor for something.
"They saw the lights in the sky...three times last week," his translator interpreted. The old guy had tried English, until he ran out of vocabulary and lapsed back to his native tongue.
Which kinda summed up a lot of Clint's relationships.
"Thank him, pay him, and ask him about his high score."
The translator smiled, and edited the remark.
They walked out of the convenience store into the Outback, which, surprise, surprise, was still blinding and hot even in autumn.
"Think there's anything out there?" the translator asked, as they got into their car.
Agent Clint Barton, alias tabloid journalist Clint Norton, shrugged. "Not enough for my story. I'll have to call my editor." He tilted the seat back, ignored the belt, and tried to ignore the live-wire current tingling under his skin.
He'd have to get some backup out there to pinpoint, but he was pretty sure they'd found an or the alien base.
Pretty sure.
The car started.
Joe Walsh & Lita Ford - "A Future To This Life"
Readers may be wondering how HYDRA got Venezuala into such a state of civil unrest in the first place. Well, while researching this chapter I learned an interesting fact; they wouldn't have to try very hard; Google the May 2014 protests. All they needed to do was provide the final straw that would push the Prez into their arms, like a lamb to the slaughter.
Plus, y'know, sleeping with him.
About that;
16 Is anybody out there gonna take your hand?
-S-
"When I was n-nine," Maxime said, "there was this mass testing project. Mass blood testing. We were told there had been an outbreak of...something." She ran a hand through her dreadlocks. "I don't...I don't remember the details."
"That's okay," Agent Daisy Johnson said. "It was a long time ago. No one expects you to do any better."
The Frenchwoman gave her a wan smile and went on. "Then, a few months ago, s-s-ome people came to me after I came home from a protest. They were waiting. They had a s-s-yringe. When I woke up," her eyes went unfocused. "They were doing things to m-me -"
Daisy reached across the table and squeezed the girl's hand. "It's okay. You're safe here."
Maxime nodded.
"Know what?" The agent got up, found a bottle. She tipped some of the contents into the kid's glass of hot cocoa. "Doctor's orders. Drink up."
"Merci."
SHIELD had installed Maxime and her security team in a safehouse with a nice view. Someone had decided that what their little...witness needed most was the knowledge that she was free. (As well as some time out of the limelight while France yelled at them.) They even gave her a bike and some spending money, to go down to the village if she felt like it. Johnson had caught her just staring out the window on more than one occasion.
"There were four of us, that I knew about. I saw the file, once. They called us the Cuckoos."
Her hands curled around the mug.
"I'm, I'm not sure what I can do-"
"We'd like to find out."
She watched the Frenchwoman curl up like an armadillo who doesn't want to get out of bed, and her eyes flickered around, looking for escape routes.
"It's voluntary, of course." She poured some of the brandy into her coffee. "You can just stay here. Or leave. We'll even give you a ride back to your parents."
"I-I-I don't want to..." She faltered, staring at Daisy.
Must not have my face neutral enough.
Maxime swallowed, and whispered. "I can't."
Daisy nodded, something starting to ache in her belly. "I don't want to pressure you. But-"
She was going to have to say it, wasn't she?
"Do you want to leave the other Cuckoos behind?"
Wanda flinched. "N-no."
Johnson raised an eyebrow, and waited.
If I wanted a cleaner conscience, I would've got another job.
She took a sip of her coffee.
Like being a lawyer.
"Okay, but-"
"But what?"
"But only if you teach me how to fight."
Daisy blinked.
Good idea.
"Okay."
-/-
It wasn't just the muscles, or the good looks, or the flowing blonde hair, Eamon decided. Thor had charisma.
He had looked up the God of Thunder ahead of time, and learned that he was also a God of Fertility. Which might explain why Irene's body felt like someone had installed some kind of Thor-magnet deep in her guts - there was some kind "attractive" pun there - but Eamon wanted to hang out with him too.
In fratboy-speak, he just seemed like a bro.
Sitwell had grumbled about putting personnel at risk, but he had stuck to the script. Thor, reduced to a mortal, landed in New Mexico, made friends with an cute astrophysicist, her rather buxom intern, and her Swedish father figure, then snuck into the SHIELD installation to try and retrieve Mjolnir. Upon failing, he grew despondent, was captured by SHIELD, interrogated fruitlessly, and then talked to an empty room. He was released, his pals came looking for him, and the town was attacked by the Asgardian equivalent of the Terminator, except with face lasers. Upon sacrificing himself to save everyone in town, his weapon flew to his hand and his powers were restored.
What happened then could best be described as "Hammertime".
And now, as he strode through the remains of the Destroyer - such a nice, friendly name - to meet his friends, Irene picked up a case and tagged along behind Sitwell.
She was last on the list, after the banter with Dr. Porter, and informing Sitwell that he knew he was just doing his job (and clapping a hand on the agent's shoulder that nearly sent him to the ground). Then the prince-god turned to her and...hesitated. "I don't think we've met."
"Loki's gone mad. The Bifrost may have to be destroyed to keep it from destroying Jotunheim. Or you try and can figure out an alternative, but only if you don't have to waste time trying to take down Loki. In fact, you may be able to stop him ahead of time."
The Asgardian's mouth was hanging open, exposing his perfect teeth. "Are you some manner of sooth-"
He felt...keyed up. Manic. "Mr. Thor, let me introduce you to our line of stunning products."
Why couldn't he stop grinning?
"First we have the dendrotoxin gun, informally known as the ICER. Next, we have a choice between the XCOM Sonic Stunner, and the Vanko Arc Thrower, patents pending."
He snapped the case shut.
"But wait, there's more! We've turned it up to eleven, so they may be able to disable your brother!"
"Ah," said the prince-god, who knew a sales pitch when he heard one. "In return for what?"
Irene grinned even wider.
-/-
The rest was silence.
Plus some teleporting gods.
Eamon stared at the mark on the ground the Bifrost had left. He had extracted a promise from Thor to open negotiations, a possible trade or military agreement. If this worked, if this worked, he might've prevented the deaths of thousands of people in New York. The Avengers would never form, would never need to. Of course, there was no reason Loki's benefactor couldn't just find another Cat's Paw, and invade anyway. And if he did, even more people might die, because he had introduced too many variables to predict. In fact, he was a vari-
"Hey," someone said, at his elbow, and he left off worrying his lip. It was Porter's intern, Darcy.
"I, ah...saw you making eyes at my girl's man," she said. "We gonna have a problem?"
Eamon stared. The pale-skinned brunette offered about as much threat to him as a mosquito, but he didn't feel much like laughing.
"No. No problem."
"Good. Because I'm pretty sure you could take me."
He stared, then snorted, then outright belly-laughed, his tension vanishing like a pricked soap bubble. The younger woman watched him with a smile on her face.
"Want a drink?"
"Sure." Eamon dragged a hand down Irene's face. "I think I could use one."
As they trudged toward the car, Darcy said "Aaand you're going to need a lot more."
Irene looked askance.
"Your big fancy base. The one you had setup around Thor's hammer. You're going to have to move it to the transporter pad here. Which means-"
"Paperwork," Eamon groaned. "Please tell me your bar serves Jack."
-/-
Tony?" said Schmidt.
"Director?" Tony looked up from his desk. "Come on in. I was just going over Vanko's designs -"
"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."
"Vanko?"
"The designs." She slumped into one of the chairs in front of Tony's desk. "They're too complicated."
The engineer blinked. "Maybe I'm mistaken, but I'm pretty sure that's what you pay me the big bucks for."
"No, wait, let me explain." She yawned. "The pulse weapons are a big hit, by the way. Nice to have an option between regular ballistics and frickin' laser beams. Especially since you can still put suppressors on them."
"Thanks, but can we get back to the 'complicated'?"
"Here's the thing, Stark, XCOM isn't just about fighting aliens, or researching their tech. We're supposed to be providing the seeds of an insurgency, in the ev -"
"I read the LOOKING GLASS brief. Kinda dry. Not exactly going to knock 50 Shades off the bestseller lists."
Schmidt paused to hold back a snicker, then continued. "Our current weapons technology isn't...very good for that sort of thing."
Stark bristled.
"I'm not saying it's not good for our current needs. That is, when our forces can come back to our base every mission and hand them over for maintenance. But if we lost -"
Tony leaned back in his chair. "Then any caches we have are going to break in about five minutes." He winced. "In my defense, I blame Irene."
"It's just tunnel vision, Chief." Schmidt shrugged. "I didn't notice it either. In fact, it wasn't until I saw how the HYDRA cell worked-"
"What?"
"The attack on the military convoy in France. A cell was activated, and they were armed with low-maintenance laser weapons, plus a few more goodies. No body armor, no overwatch, and they still managed to take down a dozen highly-trained soldiers. Interrogation suggests they hadn't even met before then."
"So you want me to make a laser AK-47?"
"Basically, yes. Start small. Add-ons for common conventional weapons." She drew her Colt from her back holster, and put it on the desk.
"Unloaded, of course," she said, setting the magazine down next to the gun Tony was now staring at like it was a rattlesnake before it had its morning coffee. "I've heard some interesting things about noise-cancelling. See if you can do anything about that. And Stark?"
"Yeah?"
She got up. "It's a puzzle, not a problem."
"Got it. And, uh, Boss -"
The Director paused in the doorway.
"I...We have enough of the alien alloy now for me to take a shot at a side project." Tony tapped his stylus on the desk absently. "We want to try and make Captain America's shield."
"Stark-" Schmidt said, and stopped, because she didn't actually have anything more to say.
Tony winced. "I know, I know," he said quickly. "It's not going to be the same as the original. But it could be useful in combat. If we customize the software -"
"Stark-" said Schmidt again, and then "okay."
"-The same as the Super-Soldier - wait, what?"
She smiled. "Okay, I said."
"Oh. Okay. Wow. I'd...I'd better get on that. And Director?"
"Hm?"
"Did they ever find the original? Or, y'know, Cap?"
Schmidt looked thoughtful. "No, I don't think they ever did."
-/-
Eamon was passing a doorway in the new SHIELD base when she heard Sitwell say "I don't trust Starkos."
Well. That was interesting.
He leaned against the wall outside, and continued to listen.
"She's a wild card. Comes out of nowhere, and she's an intelligence asset?" You could almost hear the dubious head shake. "I don't think she's good for operational security."
Pause for reply.
"I understand that, sir, I just..." Beat. "I'll keep an eye on her, yes. But I don't like how she's throwing off the math. Aliens were bad enough, but...Gods?" He ran a hand over his shaven head. "I didn't sign up for this."
"None of us did," Irene said.
Sitwell jumped as she entered the room. "Ir-Liason Starkos! I was just -"
"Sharing concerns with your superior." Eamon relieved the cringing Agent of his phone, tapped the SPEAKER button, and handed it back. "I held back, and my friend died. I tried to make amends, and broke my cover in the process. And since XCOM doesn't take kindly to folks trying to execute their prisoners, they shipped me here for SHIELD to keep an eye on me. Got it?"
"G-got it."
"Good. Glad we could clear that up."
-/-
The psionic testing chamber consisted of a circle of a half-dozen modified sensory deprivation tanks, with a big window overlooking the whole operation.
"Isn't there any other way to test for this stuff?" Tony asked. Down below, Vahlen was being helped into one of the tanks. She looked...vulnerable. And small.
"This is the other test," Marceau snapped. "We've already identified what might be the 'X-Gene' in several of our personnel. But...Xavier had such a small sample that there might be other variants we're missing. Or maybe it's not about genetics at all, but something else that we can't even begin to measure. Unless France are going to share how they found that witch of theirs-"
The normally-affable Belgian glared into the chamber like it had done him a personal insult.
"But we do know that Vahlen seems to have it, and we know she has psychic powers. Some mind-reading, pyrokinesis, who knows what else?"
Down below, the Doc looked at her number two, and gave him a brave little smile and a thumbs up. He flinched.
"Worried about her?"
"Of course! We're about to lock her in a box and them bombard her with radiation waves we can barely tell exist. Absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong!" He pinched the bridge of his nose, and mumbled something.
"What was that? Sounded like 'can't live without her'."
Marceau looked up at him, and Tony could almost hear the gears turning. "I said 'we can't do this without her'."
"What's the difference?"
The Belgian stared some more, and squared his shoulders, like he had come to a decision. He looked around to make sure no one was in earshot, and said "Tony, have you ever -"
Uh-oh, incoming Feelings.
"Yeah, I was in one of those once." He jerked a thumb at the test chamber. "Fun. 'Course," he smiled at the fond memory, "mine could hold two people."
-/-
The Venezuelan situation was getting worse. The riots were growing more frequent, only fueled by what the protesters felt was a...heavy-handed use of force.
After two days of riots, the government's patience was growing thin, along their ability to literally and figuratively put out fires. The President authorized the use of emergency measures, and XCOM's riot-denial systems rolled out in Maracaibo.
They weren't all that dissimilar to other sonic weapons, really. The main difference was that they could be mounted on and powered from much smaller vehicles. Nonetheless, there was one sitting on the comms van when Zavala poked his head in.
"Hey, Medina?" he said. "I hear they got coffee at the bakery."
The technician in the van looked up. "Can you get me some?"
"Sorry, gotta stay near the front lines."
Medina swore, and ran a hand over his face. "All right, I'll go myself. Can you keep an eye on the van?"
"Sure."
When the technician came back, the cop was sitting in his chair.
"Did you touch anything?"
A snort. "Do I look like someone who knows what any of this stuff does?"
"Actually, where are you from?"
"They shipped us in. Name's Zavala" The cop frowned. "Though it looks like one spot's as bad as another."
"I hear ya."
"Anyway, back to work. I hope these...folks don't start something today."
"Me too."
Medina soon forgot about the incident with Zavala. Which meant that when the police turned the sonic system on the protestors several hours later, he completely failed to notice that several of the settings had been changed, a knob moved here or there. As it happened, Zavala - who no one had ever seen before or would see again - did know what "that stuff" did. Better than most of the people operating it, who were going off of XCOM's simplified manual.
So when a protester - who no one ever saw before or would ever see - again kicked off the riot later, the sonic projectors did not cause discomfort.
Well, not just discomfort.
-/-
After the first rock got thrown, Claudia had started to edge out of the crowd. This wasn't her first protest, and it wasn't the first one to turn ugly. She kept one eye on the pacos, and noticed the dish on their communications van turning toward the angry crowd as more rocks flew; what, was their communication van going to radio them into submission?
As it happened, the answer was "not exactly"
The first sign was a faint twinge across the bridge of her nose, spreading quickly into a throb that she could feel in her bones. The nausea came next, then the dizziness, then the screams.
She saw someone, their eyes barely visble above their bandana, start to weep blood. It was coming from their ears too, and she touched the sides of her head by way of experiment. They came away red, and she winced. The sounds of the panicking crowd sounded...off. Did...did she have hearing damage?
This is the part where people get trampled.
Somehow, she found herself at the side of the street, in a recessed doorway. It gave her some cover from the sonic weapon the police had turned on them, but she still got to watch people fall to the ground, foam pouring from their lips. She saw blood pouring from noses, ears, eyes. She saw someone's eye pop like a balloon-
She closed her eyes.
She didn't want to see any more.
Mother of God.
-/-
"God Almighty," Schmidt whispered, her face white, as she stared at the screen in her office.
It was, perhaps, more terrifying for the protestors than bullets might've been.
Tony's jaw set. "Jo, what's the damage?"
"Vision impairment, internal bleeding, brain damage, auditory damage, seizures." Beat. "Two deaths."
Bradford looked away from the screen. "Is this...our fault?"
"I've checked the settings. They had them set well outside the limits we gave them in the manual. Venezuala claims they had calibrated them properly earlier. Either they're wrong, lying, or someone changed it later."
"Any evidence of sabotage?"
"I'm not sure that it matters." Schmidt cleared her throat, and glanced at the intel from SHIELD. "What does matter is that panic has increased in the country. Riots have escalated, there's angry mobs outside the President's mansion, lots of police have just...walked off the job. There's even surprisingly accurate rumors about where those weapons came from."
"Great, that's just what we need. What about us? How's everyone taking it?"
"There's a lot of guilt. Confusion. Some feel responsible."
"We need to get someone to check them out," Tony declared. "Isn't Pena in the area?"
Schmidt, uncharacteristically, grinned. "He certainly is."
-/-
The President of Venezuala had been putting in some long hours lately. No one was sure if that was because he was trying to shore up the disintegrating situation, or because he didn't want to show his face in public.
Even he wasn't sure.
He had been staring vacantly at the paperwork for who knew how long, wondering whether his country counted as a widening gyre or a narrowing one, alternating between swigs of scotch and antacid, when his aide poked his head in and informed him that the representative from XCOM was there.
When he was shown in, the man walked in a strange fashion - ah, yes, his prosthetic. He slumped into the chair, and declared, in an Argentinian accent, "We have a problem".
"We certainly do." He indicated the half-empty glass on the desk. "Drink?"
"No, thanks. Perhaps I wasn't clear. We -"
He pointed rapidly back and forth between the two of them.
"- Have a problem. You and XCOM."
It was strange. He could swear the ground was shifting under his feet. "Eh?"
"Your people screwed up, and people died."
"That was an accident!" the older man protested. "Perhaps if we had been given more training."
"Perhaps. But as I see it now, you have two options. Let us retrain your men-"
Funny. His ulcer seemed to be acting up. "We can't spare any personnel for, for, retraining!"
"Let us retrain your men, or lose XCOM support."
"I..." The President ran his hand through his rapidly-greying hair. "I do not think that is very funny, Director Pena!"
"That is because I am not joking." The soldier sat up. "I am authorized to withdraw all training, supplies, even defense. XCOM reserved that right when it was created." A thin smile - he was enjoying this. "Perhaps you should've read the fine print."
The older man stared. Then he reached out, plucked the glass off the desk, and drained it. "Do you know what that would do to my people?"
Pena snorted with contempt. "We've seen what you do to your people. Personally, I think you are concerned about the oil."
The President refilled the glass. "Tell me, sir, are you 'concerned' with the blood pumping through your body?"
Pena's eyes narrowed.
"And would you have us live on coffee exports alone? Hm? We must restore order, or the country will topple into economic ruin-"
"And if you can keep it propped up, what's a few bodies in the foundations, eh?"
The politician's grip tightened on the glass. "Get out of my office," he ground out.
"With pleasure, sir." He stood up, straightened his tie. "We will have your answer in a week."
The statesman waited for the soldier to slam the door shut before he buried his face in his hands.
His ulcer was definitely acting up.
-/-
"Greetings, Director," said the Councilman.
Schmidt had long ago realized that she had no idea where her boss actually was, so she had settled on a nod, and a polite "Councilman." She had also settled on parade rest; relaxed, but still alert.
"We've received...criticisms, Director," said the shadowy man, and waited. Unfortunately for him, she was highly familiar with that trick. Imply something, give them enough rope to hang themselves. They might even reveal more information than you knew about.
She went with "Sir?" and a slight cock of her head.
"Certain members of the Council feel your actions may have been...heavy-handed. Perhaps even insulting."
"You'll have to specify, sir."
A sigh. "Did you threaten to withdraw XCOM support of Venezuala?"
"I informed the President that his support by XCOM could not be selective, yes."
"We feel you're overstepping your remit, Director."
"Sir, we've both seen the reports. The police arent exactly treating their citizens with kid gloves."
"You need to stay focused on the bigger picture, C-"
"If there's anything I've learned in my life, it's that the big picture is made up of smaller pictures." A deep breath. "Would you like me to tender my resignation?"
A long pause.
"That won't be necessary." Did he sound taken aback? "We would simply like to make sure you remember that XCOM is a military organization." His tone went edged. "Not a political one."
Schmidt's hands clenched behind her back. "Sir. I strongly doubt the President will call our bluff."
-/-
The redheaded American smacked El Presidente de la República Bolivariana de Venezuela lightly with a pillow. "I have an idea."
He rolled over and looked at her. "Please, I am still sore from your last one!"
"Perhaps you are getting old. If you would like to stop this, for the sake of your old bones -"
He reached for her, and when they came up for air, she grinned and said "Not that old, then."
"I certainly hope not." His eye, idly, rolled around the hotel room, the empty champagne bottle, the remains of the food service tray.
"My idea isn't about-" she trailed her finger down her body "-us. It's about work."
"Eh?"
"I've heard how those X-Force people held you over a barrel. And I was thinking...what if you could relieve the pressure in certain areas? Free up some of your men so they could be trained properly?"
"With what?"
"My firm invests in several areas, including a private security contractor called Aegis."
"Ah." The politician laid back. "Mercenaries."
"Private security contractors," the American corrected, gently. "They can do things like, I don't know, guard politicians, do regular foot patrols."
"You want me to bring in a bunch of cowboys?" He snorted. "I doubt my people are going to like it."
"Say the oil companies made you do it. And besides -" she shrugged, "it's not like things can get much worse."
His ulcer twinged.
-/-
"Moving on. We are concerned that allowing Dr. Vahlen to remain at your primary base is an unacceptable security risk."
"I think it's quite acceptable. We already know she's friendly. And, frankly, we still need her in Research, despite what we say on paper. Marceau's effectiveness seems to drop without h -"
Schmidt's mouth hung open.
"Director?"
"Sorry. Sorry, I just...I just realized something." She tried not to grin. "I believe Interim Research Director Marceau has strong feelings for Moira. Whether friendship or romantic or both, I don't know. But it's just another argument in favor of keeping her here. I mean, we certainly can't afford to train someone else at this point."
"Speaking of such, we've heard unconfirmed reports that you and Commander Bradford are in a relationship."
The Executive Director of the Extraterrestrial Combat Unit, a top-secret agency backed by the world's major governments created to research and address the alien threat, commander of dozens of the world's deadliest men and women and experimental technology, blushed like a schoolgirl.
"Uh..."
-/-
The older Aboriginal gentleman who was talking to Barton had a large white beard, dark skin baked by the sun into leather, a football jersey, and a cell phone currently displaying a paused game of Angry Birds.
That could probably be taken as a metaphor for something.
"They saw the lights in the sky...three times last week," his translator interpreted. The old guy had tried English, until he ran out of vocabulary and lapsed back to his native tongue.
Which kinda summed up a lot of Clint's relationships.
"Thank him, pay him, and ask him about his high score."
The translator smiled, and edited the remark.
They walked out of the convenience store into the Outback, which, surprise, surprise, was still blinding and hot even in autumn.
"Think there's anything out there?" the translator asked, as they got into their car.
Agent Clint Barton, alias tabloid journalist Clint Norton, shrugged. "Not enough for my story. I'll have to call my editor." He tilted the seat back, ignored the belt, and tried to ignore the live-wire current tingling under his skin.
He'd have to get some backup out there to pinpoint, but he was pretty sure they'd found an or the alien base.
Pretty sure.
The car started.
-H-
Joe Walsh & Lita Ford - "A Future To This Life"
Readers may be wondering how HYDRA got Venezuala into such a state of civil unrest in the first place. Well, while researching this chapter I learned an interesting fact; they wouldn't have to try very hard; Google the May 2014 protests. All they needed to do was provide the final straw that would push the Prez into their arms, like a lamb to the slaughter.
Plus, y'know, sleeping with him.
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