Post by DiscipleofBob on Sept 30, 2014 22:55:28 GMT -5
Agents of SHIELD #3:
Agents Assemble, Part One
Agents Assemble, Part One
July 5, 2014
The point of view on either side of the desk was nothing short of surreal. On one side was Nick Fury. Since SHIELD's existence had been made known to the public only a few years ago, he had become the modern face of the organization. He was a bald, dark-skinned, rugged man with decades of experience and the scars to prove it. His trenchcoat and armored uniform hid most of them, but there was always the telltale eyepatch, something of a legend among SHIELD as no one was completely sure how he'd lost it.
Sitting across from Fury was the blond-haired, blue-eyed perfectly sculpted symbol of American might, in perfect condition despite his own battles like a mint condition GI Joe fresh from the box.
The two defining symbols of SHIELD, one representing its past, the other representing its future, sat across from each other sharing a cup of coffee. Surreal was the only word for it, especially for Steve Rogers who was in a world beyond his imagination. Fury gave him all the time he could as the two stewed in silence.
"How long?" Rogers finally asked.
"70 years."
As much as he tried, he couldn't even imagine the scope of it. 70 years. It might as well have been a million. He had to focus on things his mind could grasp. Something tangible. Something familiar. "But we won the war, right?"
"You won the war," Fury corrected. "After you went MIA and presumed dead, our boys figured you were leading them on in spirit. The Axis never knew what hit them."
"But HYDRA's still around. How?" It was easier to focus on the enemy, and the task at hand, then to try to comprehend just how different the rest of the world became in the past 70 years.
"They survived, but only by retreating into hiding. We've been hunting them down ever since with varying degrees of success. You know their favorite saying: Cut off one head..."
"Two more take its place," Rogers finished.
Fury nodded. "Despite them 'losing' the war, HYDRA made a hell of an impression. Everyone from international terrorists to street gangs took up the HYDRA mantle, and HYDRA was all too eager to accept other thugs into its fold. They're spread out. Separated. Disorganized. And while we can count our blessings that they haven't been able to coordinate their efforts, it makes taking them out permanently difficult. They don't need a structured hierarchy. Sure there are some head honchos at the top, but they don't micro manage every thug who wants to call themselves HYDRA. Anything that serves HYDRA's general mission statement of chaos and mayhem serves them just fine, especially if it means we're called in to deal with every one of them."
"And you can't stamp out one threat without inciting others," Rogers said, following along.
"We've got the tech, the manpower, the intel. But HYDRA has sheer numbers that continue to spread like a disease. We need every advantage we can get if we ever hope to put HYDRA down for good." Fury tossed a manilla folder at Rogers, who read its contents. "So, Captain, are you ready to serve your country once again?"
Rogers raised his head with uncertainty, something Fury would never have expected from the Captain America. "You sure I'm the right man for the job?"
"You know someone better?"?
"No offense, but I've only had one tour of duty. That was last century. You have a flying aircraft carrier and all my knowledge is 70 years out of date. I don't exactly think I'm qualified to lead a team."
Fury stared in silence, and Rogers had to wonder whether it was for dramatic effect before he answered or if Fury had to think about it first. The SHIELD director poured himself another cup before responding. "Every kid learns about Captain America in history class. A poor little runt from the Bronx, rejected from every branch of military service. Hell, at 18 they probably didn't even let you on the roller coaster."
Rogers scowled. "There a point to this, sir?"??
"One day there isn't a unit in the whole damn military that will take you, the next you're leading the war."
"I was only leading a small unit," Rogers said modestly before Fury interrupted him.
"That changed the course of the war. Without your efforts I don't know if we would have won in the end, and even if we did, there would be a lot more casualties. I understand why you might have doubts, but I'm not asking you to run tech support or lead a bunch of new recruits. For the last 70 years, SHIELD has been gathering the best operatives and the most advanced tech to combat HYDRA and they've only expanded their operations. Once upon a time the Allied Forces were in a similar position, and all it took was a runt from the Bronx to turn the tide of the war. What I'm hoping for is something similar." Fury took a pile of dossiers and spread them across the desk, revealing profiles and reports on multiple SHIELD agents. "You'll have your pick of my best agents and all the support and intel SHIELD can give."
Rogers looked over the many agents laid out in front of him: men and women, young and old, soldiers, scientists, even diplomats. They were a far cry from the rugged guerrilla troops he led in the 40's.
"Your country is asking for your service once again, Captain America. Will you answer the call?"
Both knew the answer, even if neither were certain if Captain America was completely ready to take the field once more.
Bogota, Columbia
General Quesada's private mansion was filled with movers and shakers, all gathered in the finest of tuxedoes, loose black evening gowns, and cocktail dresses. Politicians, criminals, and prostitutes mingled without distinction for one another. These same people could share a drink tonight and then shoot each other tomorrow.
In a room of fiery Latina beauties, the pale redhead was like ice against fevered skin. She practically melted through the crowd with ease, turning the attentions of everyone in the room, earning the lust of every man, the envy of every woman, and in many cases, both from both.
Despite the dense crowds, she moved across the room quickly and gracefully, beelining for the general and his current entourage. General Quesada was a large decorated man whose wealth was only matched by his cruelty. As the General noticed her approach, she allowed herself to smile coolly. The general took her by the hand and kissed it, the butcher disguising himself as a gentleman. "Ah, my friends, let me introduce you. This is Natasha Romanoff."
"A pleasure," she said in almost perfect Spanish, a Russian accent slipping through. She half-listened to their introductions, as she already knew who they were and what they represented. One from the Italians, one from the Greeks, even a warlord from Congo and an arms dealer from South Africa, not to mention all the local color. She half-listened to the General praise her efforts, instead focusing on memorizing every name and face there. Months of preparation, pretending to cozy up to the general and enter his inner circle.
Then her goddamn phone rang.
"Excuse me, gentlemen, I'm afraid I must take this," she said in her thick Russian accent.
"Hurry back, my dear. The party is just getting started," the General said with a lecherous smile.
She forced herself to return the smile as she distanced herself from the crowd before answering the phone. Only a handful of people in the world could have gotten this number and they all knew better than to interrupt her now of all times.
"This better be really important," Romanoff answered in perfect English.
"Extraction notice. Ten minute warning. Your location." It was Coulson of all people.
"You've got to be kidding me!" Romanoff had to will herself from shouting into the phone. "I am in deep cover here! If I walk away now then the last six months are completely pointless!"
"You're being reassigned to a higher priority project."
"On whose authority?!"
There was a brief hesitation on the other line. "You're never going to believe it."
Romanoff paused. She would have believed a direct order from Fury. Hell, she would have expected it. There weren't a lot of people left, or really anyone left, that she took orders from. "Who?"
Coulson took a deep audible breath. "Captain America."
Romanoff rolled her eyes at the obvious sarcasm even though Coulson had a perfect deadpan voice. "I don't have time for jokes, Coulson."
"I don't joke, Agent Romanoff. Captain America himself specifically requested you."
Romanoff waited for the punch line, but it never came. If nothing else she was intrigued, and orders were orders. "How long did you say?"
"Ten minutes."
"Perfect," she grumbled with her own sarcasm as she hung up. Barely enough time to leave the party.
She grabbed two nearby champagne glasses and downed them in one smooth motion, tousling her hair just enough to ruin the effort spent getting it perfect. Grabbing another champagne glass for effect, she returned to the consortium of warlords where she quickly slid up to General Quesada, pressing up against him and letting him smell the alcohol on her breath.
"Is the... party not to your liking?" the general asked, quickly getting the hint.
"I was hoping to have some time for more... private negotiations." She let the words hangs in the air before sliding off of him, swaying her hips with each step and making sure the general was looking at every curve.
"Heh... gentlemen, excuse me, but, uh... the affairs of state are calling," the general joked before leaving for his private chambers with his conquest for the evening.
Nine and a half minutes later...
Romanoff scaled the outer walls of the mansion. One hand keot hold of her purse and shoes, while the other pulled her up. Both were still stained with the general's blood as she reached the roof, where a stealth Quinjet was just now hovering within reach. By the time anyone noticed the general's absence, Natasha Romanoff would be in a different hemisphere.
He was still alive, but whoever SHIELD sent in her place would find him a lot easier to deal with now that Romanoff had worked him over.
Somewhere in North Korea...
Hot. *SPLASH* Cold. *SPLASH* Hot. *SPLASH* Cold.
Typical. Frank Payne always got the worst jobs. Just once he wanted to be sipping a martini on the beach with a Bond girl or something. Instead here he was bound to a rusty iron chain in the bottom of some secret dungeon prison or something, dunking his head between two barrels of water, one filled with ice, the other boiling hot. The North Koreans were shouting... something at him, but he was rusty at best at the language.
Meanwhile, Payne would have bet the farm that Romanoff and Barton were probably shmoozing it up on an assignment in Paris or Tokyo or something.
More shouting in Korean, and he was half-drowned on top of that. "How many times have I told you assholes I can't understand a friggin' word you're saying?!?"
That earned him another twenty rounds of hot and cold. Irritating as hell, but well worth it.
When his torturers had finally gotten tired of him they slammed him and the chair he was bound to back down. Payne didn't say anything this time, but glared at his captors with the same annoyance as someone who just ran out of hot water in the shower.
A newcomer, some kind of messenger, brought a piece of paper over to the leader of the group, who unfolded it before angrily shoving it in Payne's face. "LEAD!!!"
Lead? Oh, read! Stupid accents. You'd think for a guy who spent most of his public appearances claiming 'Death to America' he would have learned some of the language. Then again, Payne was supposed to learn the language before coming here and all he bothered to learn was how to ask for the bathroom and several creative insults and pick-up lines.
A gun barrel bashed him across the back of his head. Oh, right. Piece of paper. Impatient North Koreans. Payne glanced at the paper, but he had to wait for his blurry vision to correct itself. They'd done a number on him all right. Eventually he could make out the six words listed on the paper.
Extraction.
Orders from top.
Twenty minutes.
Oh, those goddamn motherf-.
"WHAT MEAN?!" the lead guy screamed in my face, as if he'd be able to translate for him if he wanted to.
"It means more work for me," Payne grumbled. The soldier behind him thrust the butt of his gun again, but this time he missed as Payne flung himself backward, dodging the butt and kicking it back into the soldier's face. The gun misfired, or rather Payne forced it to misfire with the impact. Cheap-ass guns would go off if you sneezed the wrong way.
The blast took out the hanging light bulb, the only light source in the dingy room.
What followed was a series of confusing compilation of clangs and crunches. Broken metal and broken bones combined in a twisted percussion. The barrels were quickly knocked over and flooded the room with steam only making things more obscure.
Finally the noise quieted down as one man stepped out of the room, throwing his restraints and the last piece of broken chair behind him.
Payne reached in his boot to a small watertight pouch that the N-K's hadn't bothered searching to pull out a nicotine patch and fixed it to its arm. It was a poor substitute, but Mia had insisted he try to quit for real this time. "All right, if I got the layout of this place right I should be able to get the package and get out in six minutes without any complications..."
Eighteen minutes later...
Frank Payne booked it down the hallway swearing and praying the whole way that this wasn't another dead-end. Under one arm was a skinny old scientist, the prisoner he'd been sent to retrieve. He was still tied up, as Payne didn't trust the old man to be able to keep up with him on his own.
He tried to concentrate on finding the actual exit, but this place a maze. He'd compliment the N-K's on their prison design except he was pretty sure they'd just taken over an abandoned military complex. The blaring alarms, irregular gunfire in his direction, and the old Asian guy screaming in his ear weren't helping him concentrating.
Finally he saw daylight and he sprinted for the exit. A solder rushed in front of him, but Payne wouldn't stop, his foot planting itself in the soldier's face and slamming him into the ground as Payne ran over him. He leapt out of the bunker entrance into the North Korean jungle as a fiery explosion erupted behind him, enveloping the entire complex.
Fortunately, he could see the Quinjet descending nearby. This would have been a lot easier with a few more weeks on the inside, but orders were orders.
It was still bullshit.
To be continued...