Into the hurricane
The next morning we had a group email from Promotions gushing over our decision to attend Comic Con (duties permitting, of course! But we should make every effort to put off fighting the bad guys to attend!) and telling us that we should all make a good impression with new, eye-catching costumes. They'd also be working with us in the months with public speaking and making presentations. Let's put our best foot forward! Help and advice with costumes is available and we are encouraged to take advantage of a consultation!
I smirked. Consultation, my left butt cheek. I had choices that would make them weep with joy and gratitude. And best of all, there was no "figure emphasis" in any of the sketches. Bwahaha!
I went to breakfast feeling pretty darn awesome. Natasha and Wanda joined me.
"Did you see that email from Promotions?" Wanda asked, hushed. "I felt they were specifically targeting me with that line about encouraging us to get a consultation for the costume." I snorted a laugh.
"I felt that way too," I said, biting into a sausage with relish.
"You don't seem too upset," Natasha observed, studying me. I beamed.
"I am not. I have some amazing ideas. Totally different from anything I've ever worn, in real life, even." The ladies leaned in. I did too. "Talk to Steve." I sat back. They did too, looking puzzled and bemused.
"Why Steve?" Wanda asked as we ate.
"He's got an art background," I explained. "And he has a serious eye for fashion. He might actually be wasted as Captain America." They gaped at me. "He helped me design some new looks for my regular costume and came up with some amazing ideas for Comic Con. You will not regret asking him for help. He even does enough with branding to keep Promotions happy but it's not heavy handed."
"I feel like livestock when they talk about branding," Natasha complained, and we talked about clothes and complained about Promotions for the rest of breakfast. Natasha was apparently the only one of us they were happy with; they were bugging Wanda to reveal more of her figure and were urging her to wear more supportive bras.
"We're the three bears of the Avengers," I said sarcastically. "Too little--" I pointed at myself, "Too much," I pointed at Wanda, "And just right," I said, pointing to Natasha. They burst out laughing.
I was doing the agility course today and weights after. In the weight room, I thanked him profusely for the new sketches, trying not to gush too much. It was hard.
"Is that possibly why Wanda and Natasha asked if I'd sketch something for them?" he asked in bemusement.
Yikes. It never occurred to me to check with him to see if he'd mind me bragging about his sketches. "I'm sorry, I should have asked you if you'd mind," I said, stricken, putting the barbell back on the stand and sitting up.
He smiled at me. "It's just...surprising." He paused. "But you really liked them, right? You're not just being polite, are you?"
"I love them," I say immediately. "And Promotion just about---died happy when I showed them your sketches for my regular costumes. Their heads are probably going to explode when I show them the ones for Comic Con." I was going to say that the people in Promotion had had pretty much had orgasms when they saw that they had so much more to work with, but I didn't want to make Steve blush.
He relaxed. "Good." He hesitated. "When I watched that meeting, I felt... It was depressing to have them talk about us like we're all just flawed pieces of meat they have to deal with and make better. Like what we do doesn't matter, just what we look like. And to have them talk about you like that. It was degrading. So I wanted you to have something beautiful and unique. Show them that you don't have to look like a pin up girl." I couldn't help smiling at his cultural reference.
Tony and Clint saunter up. "I hear somebody's launching a second career as a fashion designer," Tony said. Steve did blush.
"When you see what he can do, you're going to be begging him to design one for you," I say casually, and lay back on the bench, ready for another set of bench presses.
"What? Really?" Clint said, perking up. I shut them out and focused on my form. It was an increase day and I didn't want to embarrass myself by getting stuck and needing my spotter.
"I don't beg," Tony informed me when I tuned back in.
"Practice," I said, laughing. "If I were Steve, I'd expect some world-class grovelling. Prepare to prostrate yourself, Tony. Wait til you see. He helped me with some new costumes for work. I've never seen anybody in Promotions that happy." I paused to consider. "Then again, part of it was that I'm getting a new look--"
"Or three," Steve mumbled.
"Or three, so that was part of it. A small part." Clint eyed Steve with speculation. "If he plays his cards right, he'll eventually have a museum exhibition of his work," I say. I look at Steve. "When you get that request, you can borrow anything of mine that you want, but I want it back."
Tony narrowed his eyes. "You're serious."
"As a heart attack," I tell him. "His designs are couture for superheroes." Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Steve actually wiggling in embarrassment.
After working out, I trundle off to my workshop, planning to blow off my actual work and work out how to make that hooded mail shirt. Mail's not hard to make, you make the rings by wrapping the right gauge wire around a dowel with the right diameter, then cut up the coil so that you have individual rings. Then you just put them together; for the shirt, I'll want to solder the rings closed. I turned on my computer just to check the schedule and make sure I wasn't blowing off anything that I really needed to accomplish, but I was in the clear. I'd start with making some test swatches to be sure I had the right look.
I was working on the third sample when I got an email alert with an urgent message. When I read it, I hit the 'autoclose' feature on my workshop that would turn everything off for me, roll down the metal shutters to secure the premises and let everybody know I wasn't around, and automatically lock everything down. I ran straight to the conference room and dropped into a chair. Nick waited for the last stragglers, then turned on the 3D projector.
"We have received confirmation that Night Terror is setting up shop on the Yucatan peninsula," he said, bringing up a map of the area. "This particular spot is sparsely inhabited, which is good for us--" heads nodded and Bruce looked relieved "But the problem is that there's a weak hurricane heading for the area. Normally I'd wait to send you in, but it's not clear if the group knows they've been noticed. This is the best chance we've had or are likely to have for some time, so it's got to be now. We can't take the chance of them vanishing into the wind." He went on with the details of the operation, noting each of our roles. It's going to be wet and muddy, and although we field test our tech extensively, there's nothing like an op to make waterproofing fail. I make notes about what I think I'll need to bring along. "Additionally, the new quinjet has been prototyped and tested, so you'll be taking that one. It has upgrades that will be useful for the mission, including enhanced medical capability and it will fly higher and faster than before. It's equipped with stealth, so you should be able to land without being detected." Nick looked around the table. "Go suit up. You leave in twenty."
We scurried for the door and assembled in the hangar. This would be Mr Pointy's first outing and I brought both my fans with me, now named Martha and DB. I wasn't thrilled about going down to a hurricane zone, but there was nothing to be done with that except wish the baddies had waited just a few more weeks until hurricane season was over. Maybe the hurricane would lose strength and become a tropical storm.
"Nope," said Clint on the way down. "Hurricane Hugo (he pronounced it 'Yugo,' dropping the H) is showing signs of strengthening." I cracked up.
"What's so funny?" Steve wanted to know.
"Yugos were these crappy, cheap cars produced during the latter years of the Cold War," I explained.
Bruce laughed. "I remember those. One of my classmates in grad school had one. Somebody once said that it had the appearance of something built at gunpoint. It was always breaking, something always falling off. We used to tease him that the rear window defroster was to keep your hands warm as you pushed it." Everybody laughed.
It was the last time anybody had a chuckle. Once we landed, the difficulty of everything ratcheted up. The weather was foul and getting worse, and we couldn't find the target compound. We had stealth on the quinjet, but they apparently had it on their compound. Our electronics and mechanics went on the fritz and Tony and I were kept busy fixing things. Even his suit had problems. Tony's temper got more volatile, but he never snapped at me, even when I was having trouble figuring out how to fix something and he had to keep helping me. "Damn it, Tony, I'm a metallurgist, not an engineer," I muttered as he quickly diagrammed a fiendishly complicated mechanism. He quirked a smile at me and nudged me with his elbow. Scott was pressed into service too, both as an electrical engineer and as Ant-Man to do diagnostics in situ.
The only good news was that the government evacuated the few residents ahead of the hurricane, and we didn't think the baddies knew we were there yet. It was an occasion almost worthy of champagne when we discovered the lair. Scott called it a nest of filthy vermin, but then his suit was glitchy and he had to stay out of the weather which meant that Sam carried him around in his Ant Man size in a pocket. I went out to the observation point on the site and saw the surveillance equipment outside from the heat signatures, some odd structures we couldn't identify but figured they had something to do with defensive measures, and by watching the heat signatures move around inside long enough, had a pretty good idea of the layout of the lair. There was one building off by itself, set into the earth; we figured that this was the lab for Namitar; I described an unfamiliar apparatus that Tony said would superheat the lab and destroy it. The main complex had a room at then end of a long corridor which was probably the toxins lab. There was a bedroom with bunkbeds, a locker-room style bathroom, kitchen, and a large all-purpose room where Ballista had target practice and Nepthys and Necros sparred.
I watched the compound for several days, noting movements, until we had their routine figured out. The others scouted exits and entrances and confirmed that these were the people we were looking for, since I could only see heat, not what the people looked like. Other Avengers scouted the terrain and uncovered a garage where there was a semi for transporting their equipment and a few ATVs. I retreated with my guard to the quinjet after we had the information we needed, and we planned our assault.
We waited for the hurricane to reach us so we'd have maximum natural cover. It had gained strength as Clint had predicted; it was a category two and extremely unpleasant to be in. After verifying that there were five people in the compound, my part was over, and Bruce escorted me back to the quinjet where we listened to the progress of the op. Early on, the visuals shorted out, so we were stuck with audio. In stage one, they decommissioned the vehicles in the garage and cut power to the infectious diseases lab. Hawkeye triggered the destruct mechanism from the doorway with an arrow. Then they converged on the main building and forced the entry.
That's when things went right to hell in a flaming mine cart.
The heat signatures in the main room belonged to locals who, it turned out, had been offered a safe place to ride out the storm. We had no idea where the members of Night Terror were. Bruce and I stared at each other, aghast. The team rifled the compound, sealing off the venoms lab and using explosives. I slapped my head. "I didn't see any heat signatures for snakes," I said through gritted teeth. "How was he going to work without the venom sources?"
"Shit," Bruce said. "We all missed that. Are these really the people we're looking for or are they some dumb bastards who were hired to be in disguise for a few days?" Bruce was clearly agitated. He almost never swears. I shivered as another storm wave hit the quinjet, missed the thin electronic whine of the door lock.
"Well, isn't this cozy," a jeering voice said as a man stepped in. The lights came up to reveal Sess. He grinned and flung something at us; it was a very upset snake. I batted it across the room with one of my fans. A pissed off snake was not in my plans for the evening, yet here it was. And Bruce was having trouble with his equilibrium. He whipped around to look at me and I knew he was losing his fight. I ran for Mr Pointy and hit the button to open the cargo ramp of the quinjet.
Bruce gave in and the Hulk roared, a terrifying sound echoing off the metal interior of the jet. Sess sensibly ran, pursued by the Hulk. I immediately closed the ramp and poked my head outside to check the door lock. It was biometric, and I had to tamp down the panic.
None of my teammates or their parts were on the ground outside, but there was a device covering the lock; I pried it off with Mr Pointy and triple bagged it in secure biohazard bags for later examination. I closed the door and jumped onto a seat while I scanned for the snake's heat signature, frowning when I didn't find it. Then I found out why; apparently the Hulk squashed it on his way out. I took a good look at it before I scraped it up with Mr Pointy and tossed it outside. Its body matched the photograph of a fer de lance that I'd seen while researching snake venom. I shivered; it was very bad news and really cranky when disturbed, so while I felt badly that it had been used as a weapon, I was grateful that the Hulk had taken care of it for me.
It was creepy as anything, alone in the jet. The radio came back in; they had custody of Nepthys and Namitar; the others were in the wind and they were heading back with their prisoners. Bursts of static interrupted the transmissions, and I couldn't seem to call out to tell them what happened.
Through the static, a threatening, dangerous sound and a lot of shouting. I listened closely. Landslide. And somebody was missing. I grabbed the remote and charged out. I headed back toward the compound, slipping in the mud, battered by the wind and rain.
I found myself face down in the ooze, tackled by...somebody. I don't have time for this. I struggled until I was jerked up, then smacked the hand holding me hard with Martha; the person howled and fell back. I turned, and in one smooth motion, shoved Mr Pointy into my attacker's chest. I shivered as I felt the metal grate against bone, but I was merciless. My teammates needed me. I left the person in the mud and tried to run.
When I found them, just over the next rise, I was able to locate some heat in the collapsed hillside. Sam and Tony reached the area first; it was too dangerous for normal flight, but Tony was able to excavate and used his thrusters to pull Steve free. Iron Man and War Machine kept low as they took Cap to the quinjet, the rest of us following as quickly as we could. It was exhausting to fight the mud and the rain and the wind, but I was in range just in time to hit the remote for the jet and the ramp began to open.
When the rest of us straggled in, they had Steve on the table and the AI starting its scan. We closed the ramp behind us and Sam took over at the table as our resident real medic. Scott and Wanda secured the two prisoners in the special seats by the tailgate that had Hulk-grade restraints for arms and legs built in. Namitar didn't look too upset, and I asked if he'd been searched. Jim and Tony exchanged looks and dragged him back outside. In short order, they dragged him back, naked, with his clothing in more biohazard bags, tossing him a blanket before restraining him again.
"Where's Bruce?" Natasha asked me worriedly, and I explained what happened. Tony immediately took charge of the device I'd found. The rest of us waited silently as Sam finished clearing Steve's airway and got him breathing again. Finally the AI pronounced that he was stable but would need to see a doctor.
"We can't leave for about an hour," Clint said grimly. "That's when the eye of the hurricane should be over us and we can fly. Bruce has an hour to make it back," he told Natasha, and she nodded.
"Do you want to go look?" I asked her after a couple of minutes, and she nodded.
"I'm not kidding. You've got to be back by the time the eye comes around," Clint said warningly. "We have to leave, and it's going to be a rough ride as it is." I nodded, and Natasha and I went out.
We went out in concentric circles with the quinjet in the middle, and we heard the Hulk before we saw him, throwing a downed tree aside, briefly illuminated by lightning. We slogged toward him and stood a respectful distance away. He turned suddenly--it was freaky how fast something that big could move sometimes--and bellowed, dragging something with him as he walked toward us. He dropped the thing when he reached Natasha, and as she began talking him down, I looked down and saw Sess in the muck. His chest had a severe wound, and I blanched. "I did that," I said quietly. Natasha made me repeat it louder, then shrugged it off.
"He'd have killed you if he could have," she said shrugging. "Don't worry."
Soon Bruce was back with us, and it didn't take long to decide to leave the body and notify the authorities. When we got back to the quinjet, we found that Scott and Tony had managed to fix whatever had been wrong with the radio, and we'd be able to communicate with authorities soon. Everybody had changed out of their suits, leaving them in a pile dripping through the grating of the deck. I stripped off my suit, surely ruined by the mud, made sure my weapons were secured, toweled off, and dressed in dry clothes. There wasn't a lot of conversation; we were all so very tired. We ate and drank to help restore our energy while we waited. Steve was awake but wiped out.
The eye of the hurricane came around a little faster than predicted, and we lifted off immediately. Hawkeye had not undersold the quality of the flight; it was really rough even in the eye and ascent must have been about 80 degrees. I wasn't the only one extremely grateful as we shot out of the hurricane and into calmer skies. Hawkeye got us stable and level, and we arrowed for home. It was a couple hours-long flight, so I took a nap. I was absolutely exhausted.
I woke up on the descent, having been leaning on Sam, who woke up when I moved. There wasn't any conversation when we landed; security was there to take charge of the prisoners, and medical was there for Steve. Nick was also there, and we went to the conference room for a quick debriefing. He recorded our statements, then we stumbled off for a real rest. I took a quick, really hot shower and fell into bed, the dogs laying down beside me. When I woke up, it was about eight in the evening. I was still tired, but felt a lot better. I went for a late dinner in the caf, then Nick called me up for a more extensive debriefing. I was the first one to wake up. No surprise; I'd been in the jet for most of the excitement.
After Nick and I finished, I went down to medical. Steve had been admitted. "It's just for the night for observation," he said, and coughed suddenly. I handed him a tissue. I told him to let me know if he needed anything, patting his hand, and he closed his eyes again.
I went out to find a doctor. The one I found was familiar to me; I'd worked with her a bit when they were having me root around with the DNA and she was both nice and very competent. "We're a little concerned," Dr Harris admitted. "Based on his past performance, we'd expect that he'd have bounced pretty much back by now." I frowned.
"He just coughed," I said. "He wasn't coughing on the jet." Dr Harris frowned too and bustled off to Steve's room.
I loitered until she came back. "I know it's gross," she said, "but if you could take a look and see if there's any microbes in there?..."
I took the tissue and dialed down enough to see the microscopic. I almost dropped the tissue. "Yuck. It's teeming,' I said tersely. She told me to wait in her office after washing my hands thoroughly and took off. I did as I was told, and when she came back, she had me describe what I'd seen, then showed me microphotographs of different disease-causing bacteria and viruses. I found two that looked right. One was kind of fuzzy things that looked like slices of potatoes, the other one showed capsules.
"Influenza," she said shortly to the first photograph. "Bacterial pnemonia," she said to the second.
"He was absolutely fine earlier today," I protested. "He should have showed some signs for this high a concentration." She looked at me hard, thinking.
"Shit," I said in a higher pitched voice than my usual alto, and told her about Namitar's lab. She echoed the curse, and hustled me out to an exam room and took some blood samples since I wasn't coughing. They'd examine them professionally, of course, but I took a quick look and didn't see anything. I was issued a mask and a warning to keep to myself as much as possible until they figured out what was going on. When I left, she was calling Nick.
On the way back to my room, I detoured to the custodial supply room and liberated paper towels, a box of bin liners, and a can of Lysol. I planned to clean every hard surface I touched. But honestly, the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced Namitar was behind Steve's illness. Somewhere he must have gotten DNA. That stunt with the locals showed that they knew we were there.
I detoured once more and went to the security station, where they refused to let me see the prisoners. Finally they brought the ranking security officer out, who listened to what I had to say, and promised to interrogate Namitar about it. Then he showed me the door. Balked and furious, I finally went home. A message from Nick was waiting for me; we were all confined to our rooms until further notice and noncompliance would be addressed prejudicially. Good that I got my running around done, then. We were to call the caf when we were hungry; they would deliver our meal in disposable containers. When we were done, we were to place the containers and utensils in the bags that would be provided with each meal, leave them outside, and they would be incinerated. I rolled my eyes. Talk about overkill. A firm injunction not to come into contact with anyone was added at the end. It looked like the pups were going to have to go out on their own. I hit the internet to do some research.