Chapter 3
Rocket's gun weighs on his shoulder in a familiar and casual stance; his forefinger taps on the trigger's guard while the barrel points at a forty-five degree angle skyward, loose yet easily accessed when the moment calls. The calm, careless exterior masks a sharp, concerned interior stirred forth by the creaking metal surrounding them. Not to mention the hulking son of bitch waiting around any corner.
Is it weird to kill your dead co-parent-slash-sister-figure's genocidal dad?Probably not any weirder than blowing up your co-parent-slash-brother-figure's homicidal planetary dad.
His head swivels from passing building to building, taking in the grey specks drifting from the sky like a snow globe that got its snow from the streets of New York and the nameless abandoned businesses along the way, contrary to Thor's focused gait. The god treads without pause, eyes tight and about-facing; they don't have a very long way to go and the quicker they reach their destination, the quicker Thanos falls. He can feel Rocket's eyes trace the contours of his back like moths fluttering on a lampshade.
"Oh, a cafe!" Rocket chirps at the chipped red letters lining the windows, pointing with the barrel of his weapon. A wall of milky glass windows, condensed over from the coolness outdoors, and brick creates the foundation of the building. Adorable red awnings spread across the front, though some of them are starting to fray. He stops walking to mock-read the sign - the business hours - taped to the door. "Free asbestos with every donut."
"I'd imagine we've inhaled enough out here as is," Thor says without more than a passing glance at the place.
"Yeah, you're right."
Just a peek won't hurt, though. Rocket holsters his gun and cups his hands against the glass. It's a cute little diner covered in shades of beige, mint, and oaky brown. The cream (or pale green, he can't tell since the fog washes all color out of the scenery) booths are all unsurprisingly empty. There's a counter with neat, attached wooden stools and a cash register and steaming mug leaving brown imprints on a napkin at the furthest end, just in front of a sugar shaker.
"Somebody's been here," Rocket murmurs against the glass. Thor stops.
A bell on the door jingles when he pushes it open. The stench of coffee beans and grease clings to the booth cushions, wafting deliciously throughout the establishment. Thor places a hand on the seat.
"It's still warm," he notes as Rocket, climbing up on the tips of his toes, snags the mug and gulps half of the sweetened, black coffee. Thor raises a brow.
"What? Nobody else was drinking it."
"Rabbit."
"Okay, okay," he yanks the walkie-talkie from his belt and presses the button on its side, wiping the coffee-mustache from his muzzle. He places the mug within the stained rings. It's not like Rocket wasn't going to eventually make the call. "Possible activity at the cafe on Bachman."
"On it. Headed your way now," Roger’s voice dissonantly crackles from the small speaker. It fades into a low static, the fuzzy tones a quiet, electrical hum like the peaceful buzz of fan on a hot summer day. Rocket fiddles with the volume dial until the noise is quiet enough to be mistaken for a stray fly, then puts away the device. He smacks his lips as he triumphantly swallows the rest of the coffee.
Movement at the corner of Thor’s eye, quick but noteworthy in the shape and color - a bright yellow flash, like the swish of a regal, gaudy cape - darts behind the counter and into the small, concealed portion of the walk-in kitchen. The figure is skeletal, dark everywhere but the fabric over its shoulder and the pallor sheen on damp skin, and moving too fast to discern any facial features, like a long lost memory of marigolds and snakes.
Thor, pajama clad, tiptoes out of the castle’s gates with Loki's fist deep in his own. They pass Mother's sleeping quarters first, then through the throne room as they gallop down ornate marble steps. One heaving shove from the pair, and grandiose door opens.
They bask in the early morning glow for a moment, then run into the flower field that greets the first kiss of sunlight. Barefoot and giggling, Loki drops into the flora to conceal himself, the faces wide enough to hide entire civilizations much less a slippery little reptile with the evasiveness of a jerboa. Each bloom dwarfs their boyish hands; at least twenty centimeters across and brimming with petals in shades of mustard and pale orange. Thor, flowers at his waist, covers his eyes and counts to ten - definitely not squinting through the cracks of his fingers as the pair agreed his back should face the field - while Loki settles in. When time runs out, Thor dashes into the thickest of the marigolds to find him. He runs in circles for hours, always close but never quite able to best his brother’s elaborate game of hide-and-seek.
Thor blinks, and he’s gone.
The thought crosses his mind, to hope that the fool escaped in another treacherous illusion, perhaps masquerading his injuries and hidden amongst the bodies until Thanos passed on, however unlikely it may be.
Thor passes the register; his partner, on the other hand, takes a moment to fold the bills and change into one of his pant pockets, having failed to spy the figure or completely unbothered by it all together since the figure is neither tall nor broad (nor purple) enough to be their target, Thor can't tell. Rocket tugs open the drawer below the register.
“This place is even messier than Quill’s room,” he mutters. He paws away a polaroid of a young girl and loose pennies to get at the rest of the loot: a kitchen knife, a town map, and a partially-used roll of silver duct tape, packing it in his supply belt with the rest of his miscellaneous tools. Score!
Thor peeks his head behind the wall; the kitchen is empty, only a pot of flat, muddied water and sink overflowing with grimy dishes to speak of. If a person was here, they neglected to clean up after themselves. No one in sight, he squats below the metal, wheeled countertops, checking for retreating footsteps or billowing cloaks. Nothing but a fine layer of dirt. Scuffling from behind, Rocket greedily digging for more in the drawers, and Thor throws a withering look his way.
“Is it wise to rob a place that we know is inhabited?” he asks, still level with the ground. He claps his hands clean while Rocket shamelessly shines the blade of his new knife with a grey hand towel.
“Maybe, maybe not. But it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it,” Rocket winks. “It usually pays off in the long run.”
The front bells ring. Thor senses the smile of the exiting figure more than he sees it; cold, taunting as a serpent dangling a golden apple in front of his starving lips. His head turns just fast enough to catch the slam of the cafe’s front door over Rocket’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” Rocket turns around. “Huh. Must’ve been the wind.”
“Come on, Rabbit!” Thor nearly topples the raccoon in his haste out the door.
Outside is distinctly other than Thor recalls; while it was not what one would describe as a shining city, the structures before them are in irreversible disrepair, sections peeling, dissolving toward the suddenly tumultuous clouds overhead and leaving only skeletons of mortar and steel encrusted with rust. Blood and rot cover the sidewalk. The flakes in the air remain suspended, as if time itself stopped breathing at the sight. Rocket’s radio screeches the instant he steps foot on the pavement. He fumbles, and then spots the angry blackhole swirling above.
“What in the- ”
“Which way did it go?” Thor asks, winding up Stormbreaker for a jump, when the yellow cape slaps a stop sign at the corner of the street. He leaps toward it and his fingers just miss the cloth by a hair, sending a wave of gravel over the asphalt when he lands. Rocket chases not far behind, gun drawn and firing low as he aims to incapacitate.
The radio spikes into a high-pitched wail the moment a hand slaps a car about thirty meters away and disappears behind the vehicle before either can so much as take a step. Thor crushes its roof under his boot - no trace of the figure left behind.
-----
Scott rubs his thumb over the pads of his first and middle fingers, grimacing at the slimy texture. The goo is like colorless jelly, thick and wet and the kind of nauseating lumpy that occurs several weeks after the expiry date passes. Killing insects makes him uncomfortable, like rolling a cat on its back and dropping a bucket of water over its head: unnecessary, cruel. He swallows.
A sharp pinch, a pebble or shard of glass, knicks Scott's middle finger. The helmet unlatches and he squints at the smear of greenish-grey hemolymph on his glove.
“Ow,” he mumbles to no one in particular.
Upon closer inspection, a sliver of aquamarine approximately the size and shape of a teardrop, or an earring's jewel, sticks out of his flesh. All the colors in the room, the shades of blue at least, pour into the glittery depths. It's captivating.
He plucks the splinter between his forefinger and thumb, then grabs a plastic pill baggie from behind the counter and drops it inside. It folds neatly into his breast pocket. For safekeeping.
As for Antabelle, Scott brushes her little body into a tissue and throws it in a white, plastic bin beneath the counter.
He's no entomologist, but Scott's done some rudimentary research since Cassie bullied him for knowing next to nothing about creepy crawlies despite being called the Ant-Man (which he could've explained was just a name, but that's not as fun), and he's never seen anything like that before. It's like a slug, leech, and spun glass caterpillar were all thrown in a blender and that monstrosity with teeth, bulbs, and feelers crawled out. He feels bad for killing it. Hank would've thought it was cool. The thought tightens his heart.
Anyway, the crystal in its guts piques a special kind of interest. So Scott's secondary mission is to capture one of those sleeches - a portmanteau of slug-leeches, to make his discovery legitimate - so Pym can get a closer look when everything's okay.
With Antabelle gone, his quickest form of transportation is full-scale-human sprinting, leaving him to vault over the counter where there isn't a fresh wet spot. The soles of his boots loudly thud when they hit the tiles. So much for stealthy recon.
Looming around the back of the shop nets pill bottles and a pair of smashed wire glasses that curiously bend perpendicular to the lenses at the temple, pointing directly outward, that sit atop a suspicious ruddy stained coat. No other insects, though. Scott casually leafs through a notepad of prescriptions like a stack of bills, stirring dust into the air, and sighs.
The back of the pharmacy is just rows of medicine, a small sink for employees to wash their hands, and a door along the far wall for deliveries. Most of the medicine is undisturbed. Scott picks one up and rubs the fuzzy grey off the label - lorazepam - and replaces it. Frustratingly, there's not a single disturbance in the visible patches of grime.
WWSD - What would a sleech do? Scott scans the area again, and his eyes settle on the damp, dark space below the sink.
A furious clap, thunder rolling like an orchestral applause, suddenly startles him. Scott, squatting his head in the crevice to better see the unlit corners, jolts. His head snaps up and right into the porcelain for the second ear-splitting crack of the afternoon. He groans.
Nothing outside's changed.
Scott replaces his helmet.
"Did anyone else hear that?" he asks over the coms.
Static. Scott taps the ear shell twice and tries again.
"Lang?"
"Hey, Iron Man," Scott says. He clears his throat. "Stark."
There's a scuffle over the speaker, like cloth rubbing a microphone, and muffled curses.
"Where are you?" Black Widow - Romanoff asks. "What did you hear?"
"Thunder. Uh, I'm in a drug store. Big glass windows, you can't miss it," he glances outside. "It's across the street from a burger joint."
"Is there anyone else nearby?"
"Not that I can see."
"Stay right there, we're coming."
-----
Nebula crawls in through a gap in the window. She folds like a professional gymnast, narrowly sliding between the wood. Rhodes watches, the helmet part of his suit flipped open, with a curious frown on his face. When he doesn’t follow, she looks at him. Her thigh rests on the frame with her boot dangling over yellowing grass and the other leg lies flat on linoleum floor.
“The door would draw more attention,” she explains. “This is quieter. And faster.”
“Checks out,” Rhodes says. He gestures down at the clunky metal with his eyes. The War Machine suit isn't exactly built for stealth. “But I can’t do that.”
Nebula sighs.
“I’ll open the doors.”
She tucks into the building, stepping around discarded bandages and what looks to be animal bones, and approaches a pair of double doors with a wire coat rack shoved between the handles, jammed presumably to keep the doors in place. Ineffective, since the pole is weak and easily bent. She removes it.
The walls of the vestibule are covered in dark, burgundy splatters. A decaying corpse lies on one of the benches, stomach torn open so all the rotting organs spill onto the floor. The stench would be unbearable if her nose were still organic. Maggots squirm in the open cavity. Nebula turns up her nose and steps around the mess. She pushes the doors with as much force as she can muster with one functioning hand, the live, dangling wires off the other, the open air igniting the steady thrum of her nerves.
Rhodes whistles at the sight. Curious; she expected some retching.
“Talk about a bad omen,” he comments. Rhodes’s hand hovers over his earpiece. “Maybe we should get Steve.”
“This body is old. Thanos would never leave a mess like this,” she says matter-of-factly. “Whatever killed it has probably left by now.”
Just to be safe, he nods the mask back over his face.
“Let's split up. We'll cover more ground that way,” Nebula suggests.
“Hell no. Have you seen any horror movies?” Rhodes scans the lobby. “Thanos'll pick us off one by one, and it does not end well for the black guy. Especially not the disabled black guy.”
“I have never seen a movie,” Nebula deadpans so neatly he almost mistakes it for a joke.
“Really?”
“Yes. Stark reacted the same way.”
They wander to the opposite sides of the room. Nebula squats low to check under waiting chairs. Dust covers the floors, then her knees and her palm. Some broken pieces of the ceiling have been kicked underneath the chairs.
The only item of interest is an unmarked red backpack tugged beneath a table. It is impossible to tell if the fabric was made that color or originally a lighter color later stained. The zipper heads appear undamaged, though missing the little piece to pull it open. When she holds it against her chest via her forearm, it’s too difficult to get a proper hold on the empty ring due to the angle. She struggles for a moment. It might contain useful supplies, she decides. Defeated, she tosses it on a table.
“Find anything?” Rhodes calls from behind the reception desk.
“Nothing relevant to the mission,” she says. Nebula holds up the backpack. “But there was this.”
Rhodes takes it.
“If it's got some tools, maybe we can do something about your arm.”
As he fumbles with the busted zipper, Nebula ducks into the archway separating the lobby and the nurse's office.
No movement. It's safe enough.
The frayed curtains between the bed and the office leave little to the imagination; the coppery, bitter stench, not unlike the vestibule, and silhouettes in the grime tell enough. She pulls it back and the metallic rings screech.
A body lays at her feet. It's a woman this time, and she's somewhat fresher, lacking maggots and with minimal signs of decay. Her arm ends at the bicep, the edges rough with a bone peeking just out of the flesh. The other is covered in crescents, teeth imprints, and bruising. Her nose and a significant portion of her cheeks have been bitten clean off, exposing her gums.
Death is familiar, almost a friend or begrudging ally after years of nothing but destruction. Nebula's killed an uncountable amount of people, and witnessed twice the amount since conception, blood and tears as natural as rainfall. It’s easy to tell that, when it came, death was a mercy for this girl.
Nebula drops the curtain.
Fingers curl around her shoulder. Acting on instinct, Nebula twists around and raises her good arm to strike.
“Whoa, whoa! Chill,” Rhodes sans suit says. “I found a wrench and a switchblade in your bag. If you want, we can clean that up.”
He gestures at the hanging wires.
They sit on the moderately clean bed, Rhodes carefully breathing through his mouth while the stench wafts. The scissors on the switchblade snip audibly. Nebula flinches infinitesimally, every wire snap aching like a tendon being clipped from her body. Her eyes wander around the room to the other curtain, presumably concealing another corpse, though she doesn't care to check.
“Am I hurting you?”
“Unimaginably,” Nebula says. Her voice doesn't betray the pain. Rhodes releases the wire in his fingers. “I've experienced worse. They'll only get in the way.”
“You're taking ‘unimaginable pain’ pretty well,” he notes.
“I mean unimaginable to you .”
“Is it something like your nerves being dipped in acid and shoved into a faulty electrical socket?”
Nebula’s dark eyes flicker to Rhodes's. She surveys his form; out of the suit, he’s smaller, leaner, muscles more subtle than the god and the genetically enhanced soldier they ventured with. Granted, the suit weighs several tons, and the stark difference might play a factor in her perception. Steel frames contain his jean-clad legs like a secondary pant. Leg braces. This is what he meant by disabled.
“Is that what you felt?”
“At first,” he admits. “It's almost like static now.”
“What happened?”
“Negotiations over a treaty went to a dark place. I got shot mid-air, right in the spine. Lost control of my legs,” he says quietly. Nebula’s mechanical arm hangs limply in his hands, almost entirely tidied up. “Tony designed these braces so I could walk again.”
“Who shot you?”
“It was an accident.”
“Who?” she persists.
“A friend. He's gone now.”
“Can we save him?” she asks.
“I don't know. He had one of the stones in his head. They took him to Wakanda to try to remove it, but the scientist in charge couldn't finish in time. When Thanos took the stone, it killed him.”
“I don't understand,” Nebula says reluctantly. “Most life forms would be incinerated after prolonged, direct contact with a stone.”
“They put the stone and one of Tony's AI in an android, and Vision popped out,” Rhodes explains. “Last ditch attempt at saving the Earth.”
“Hm,” Nebula grunts. Rhodes clips the last wire. Nebula relaxes her muscles, the pain plateauing to a familiar, dull hum. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
“Give me the blade,” Nebula holds out her hand. With the extraneous machinery gone, she shoves the switchblade in the gaping hole. Her bolts adapt, integrating the weapon with her circuitry. Thanos may have been a cruel father, but he sculpted all his weapons with utility in mind. She flicks the blade twice.
“Okay, now that's cool.”
“You should call the others,” she says. “The creature is probably still within the city, if not with us in here.”
Rhodes glances around the room and nods, stepping back into the metal shell. The helmet closes over his face.
“Hey, FRI. Call Rogers,” he says. Instead of FRIDAY's pleasant monotone, an explosion of static fills Rhodey's ears, thick and heavy like rolled steel wool dipped in tar. His hands uselessly cup his ears.
Dry gasps erupt from the paper-thin veil a few feet away; sudden, like a March gust, and startlingly loud after their quiet exchange. Nebula twirls in its direction with her knife arm raised to eye level.
“Hello?” Rhodes calls. He can't hear a fucking thing over the screeching in his ear. “ Radio off .”
The heaving speeds up to a short, shallow spasm of breath, almost like a hound sniffing out prey just before a chase. He raises a hand at the noise. Tucked behind a paper-thin veil illuminated by flickering overhead bulbs, Nebula spies a heap curled on the bed; it shifts minimally, almost vibrating as it breathes.
“Are you hurt?” Rhodes tries again.
The figure unfurls like a waking bud in the spring; one limb touches the floor, another shoves a rolling tray, one grasps the padding of the bed as it rises. A hand extends to the curtain and pulls it out of the way.
-----
Miss Potts is surprisingly cool, given her outwardly mousy and otherwise unassuming appearance, but Okoye supposes one must be if they're to manage a force as chaotic as Anthony Stark. It's a valuable trait for any leader - though her cheeks flush, either from the freshly-popped bottle of wine or anguish. Or it may just be a trick of the holograms.
"If they're after the same target, they should come across her," Danvers says. "Are you certain she came here?"
"Shuri left nothing to go off. It is my only guess. She'd never shirk her responsibility for anything but her family, and if there was an energy spike as you say, I'm certain she found it," Okoye swipes at the band on her wrist. "I am sending the coordinates from her wristwatch now."
"Miss Potts, these coordinates are about the same distance away from the source as the team's last-known location," FRIDAY observes. She zooms in on and highlights the two points.
"So we should assume there's a device disrupting Terra-made tech in about a thirty mile radius?" Danvers asks.
"Thor took one of our ships," Valkyrie shakes her head. "It'll probably affect anything we bring with us."
"Oh, well, we don't need tech."
Valkyrie smirks.
"Back to the matter at hand, a week is more than enough time to be concerned," Pepper notes. "If you can spare a team, you should go."
Neither Valkyrie nor Carol volunteer to assist; it shouldn't hurt, knowing both women have prior obligations to their people, but Okoye can't shake the oily helplessness. She cannot, will not lose another loved one. She drops into Shuri's favored wheeled stool.
"I promise we'll join you in," Pepper's eyes flicker sideways. "Forty two hours."