Frenetic
Richmond, Virginia
2018
It’s quiet uptown. Natasha isn’t really used to the new feature of this old town.
The quiet. The unbearable silence spread thick over the airwaves like cream cheese on a bagel. It brings with it a laughable and unrealistic sense of peace.
There’s always been something going on somewhere. A fight, a world altering event, a laugh, some badly named organization crawling out if its early grave to boast of fake successes and situations. But now, in the aftermath of another one of those events that has changed life as the world knew it, there’s nothing. No major news, no press events, no younglings running through the streets kicking cans (or whatever it is that kids do for fun these days, she practically hears Steve’s voice clear as crystal, there are very different definitions of 'fun' now) or loud music on the radio. The most exciting thing she’s seen since leaving Wakanda was a group of men ransacking a local electronics store.
Not knowing what to do with the spare time - or the tight, anxious pit in her stomach - Natasha finds herself in Virginia. The modest town she’s decided to coop herself up in for now is a far cry from the bustle of New York or the entrancing expanse of Wakanda. But it’s familiar, easing her away from her thoughts if nothing else. She spent eight months undercover here for SHIELD, back before the Avengers Initiative and all of the chaos that followed her becoming a part of that dysfunctional family. It’s nothing exciting, nothing special, but it does well enough for a momentary getaway.
Getaway, Natasha rolls her eyes and scoffs at herself for the mental image that conjures. Saccharine families with two kids and a dog, with white picket fences around their beachfront vacation homes. It makes it sound like her exit from Wakanda was for some rest and relaxation featuring massage therapy and scuba diving off the coast.
She has to shake her head to rid herself of the train of thought. Those are never things she's dreamt of or deluded herself into thinking she could have or was meant for. She's not on a getaway, she's in Virginia. Crawling away from the rock everyone else has hidden under to try to accomplish something. It's not that she's bitter, she gets it, but Natasha has never been the kind of person to linger in one place and kick up her feet to sip coffee and draw up plans. She likes the be on the move, in a way.
Richmond is a ghost town. The Food Lion - she's shocked it's still here, was still running before everything, considering there are so few left in the states - has empty carts scattered around the lot and the front doors are ajar. Every business she comes across has darkened windows and Closed signs on the doors. There are still cars abandoned on the streets, though it’s clear someone - probably local authorities, what’s left of them - has been making an effort to clear the roads. There’s a path wide enough for one car but no one seems to be taking advantage of it other than herself.
Hell, the streets are nearly deserted. Probably due to the damage on the other side of the town. A plane dropped out of the sky, another unforeseen consequence of people just disappearing in thin air, causing just as much physical damage to the area as emotional damage. Half of the town managed to get caught in the damage, all crushed buildings and smeared landscapes spotted with places of refuge. The wreckage has barely been touched as well, leaving shops collapsed and homes devastated.
The blonde steers her borrowed midsize Sedan around the bumper of a Malibu that isn’t quite outside of the white lines. The window on her side is rolled down, elbow balanced on the rim of the opening and her fist propping up her head. A rush of cold air invading the vehicle is enough to keep her awake, biting at the edges of her cheeks and pushing her hair around her face like a curtain. The cooler weather reminds her of the time of year, the upcoming holiday. Natasha spares a moment to think of Thanksgiving, looming over everyone like a sick joke. She turns the corner, thinks of Stark Tower and Pepper inviting them all to an open bar and buffet, of the year Thor came down a few days following the holiday and insisted they see what a real feast was like. She thinks of Steve the past year, struggling to bring the few of them he could together just to make sure everyone was safe and ultimately failing to collect more than just the two of them and Sam.
Without warning and with a harsh crackling noise that makes her flinch, the vehicle jerking to the side momentarily and nearly catching the sidewalk, the radio in the car comes to life. She had forgotten it was on at all, soft static transitioning to someone clearing their throat. It tears her from her thoughts, a welcome relief from the memories and ‘what if’s raining down on her.
“A catastrophic event struck the globe, two months ago.” A distinctly female voice says, slow and careful. The radio crackles again, this time with a whine, as if whoever is broadcasting is too close to their microphone. The noise makes Natasha cringe, for just a brief moment missing the silence. “Recent reports are starting to show the true extent of the damage across the globe - involving record breaking casualties and extensive damage to many cities.”
Natasha wonders where the other person is broadcasting from. Somewhere close, more than likely. But whoever it is seems to be speaking to an audience and, well, there isn’t much of that here. It’s possible they’re using a booster, or bouncing off of any towers left running, but the equipment and resources required for that imply a strong hand. She puts a pin in that thought, she’ll come back to it when she leaves.
Taking a left, the blonde maneuvers her way toward the parking garage. The barrier for the entering side is still in place but the one in front of the exit is smashed and scattered on the cement. After a brief moment of consideration she backs the Sedan up and goes to the wrong side. The thick pieces of plastic from the ruined gate crackle under the tires of the car, reminiscent of one of those do-it-yourself welcome mats kids make parents in elementary school with cheap craft items. Then she takes the green vehicle she’s commandeered down, twisting around cars and the occasional abandoned personal possession. Briefly, she wonders about the stories behind the blue duffel bag by the big truck, the makeup bag haphazardly perching on a railing, and the child’s carseat tipped over in an empty parking space.
“Government officials have yet to disclose the cause of the Incident but it has been hinted that the events involve the Avengers and their previous cohorts more than we originally thought.”
Of course. Natasha feels her lip curl in a sneer because, really, she knew it was coming. Their ragtag band of misfits is an easy scapegoat for something like this. That doesn’t mean it isn’t bullshit, because it is. Some of them have lived and breathed this life for at least a decade. Had lived and breathed this life. She has to remind herself that they’re not all here. It’s easy to forget for a few moments. It makes guilt creep over her and she wears it in her stiff shoulders the same way a seasoned politician wears an ugly blazer. The faceless stranger on the radio prattles on, background noise for a few moments while her thoughts turn back to the unwilling treasures distributed along her path until she tunes back in.
“- most of them have been notably absent in the recent months. Hawkeye, previously assumed deceased or incarcerated, was spotted in New York. The War Ma - oh, my mistake - the Iron Patriot was in D.C. earlier today.” The radio cracks and fades the lower into the structure she goes. “The Black Widow has even been seen on the East Coast. Some of the most notable faces of the group, however, remain unaccounted for. Captain America has been virtually nonexistent since the events at the Leipzig airport in Saxony. Iron Man himself, best known as Tony Stark, was last seen above New York involved in a confrontation involving unidentified... hostiles? The Man of Metal hasn't been seen since, and is being assumed deceased."
Despite everything that's happened in the recent years, Natasha can practically her her heart splintering in her chest before it sinks to her stomach. They had seen the news footage and heard it from Bruce already, the object suspended over the city and a small group of heroes trying to fight off forces no one had recognized. As hard as she tries, it's impossible for her thoughts not to drift to the man in question.
"These events have hit close to home for all of us. Even those of us who never witnessed the acts of the Avengers can -" Tony, who helped build the Avengers, who played a part in pulling them all together by their red strings of fate and giving them a home.
"- all are feeling the depth of this loss. The toll this is taking on everyone from the states to the far islands off the coast of -" Tony, who should be preparing for a wedding and trying on ridiculously decorated and bedazzled suits with matching shoes and socks.
"- but the real question we're faced with? What now? The Avengers have disbanded and the Authority is denying us any information following -" Tony, who was the only one left in New York to defend them aside from a teenager who had no business playing hero and a couple tinkering magicians. "- nothing to go off of, from here. This is the Rising Tide, taking over the airwaves and providing you with the only -"
When she reaches the bottom of the building, section 3C according to the worn dark blue sign attached to one of the posts, the signal fizzles out. That’s probably for the best, she decides as she clicks the knob to turn it off. The woman doesn’t want to think about Clint and what he must be going through, or Tony potentially pulverized by the Titan they saw or a probable victim of the snap, or Steve pacing around Wakanda with Bruce, or Thor and the walking roadkill with their dead end ideas, or Wanda with her light accent and rich smiles, or any of the other friends they’ve lost. Thinking about them won’t change anything. It won’t bring anyone back. It won’t force a solution to spark in their brains and make everything suddenly mendable.
All it’s going to do is drag them all down and make rebuilding their lives harder. Natasha has been persistent in preaching this acceptance to herself and anyone who bothers to ask her opinion or insists on injecting false hopes into their conversations. Bruce had told her, shortly before she left him and their Wakandan refuge behind, that she was being just a little harsh. Realistic seems like a more appropriate word for it.
After a moment of consideration she turns the key and slides it from the ignition, causing to car to give a mild whine at the unexpected end of its trip. The sound of the car door closing echoes through the parking garage, the keys singing as metal clinks against metal when she hooks them around one of her belt loops. Even her footfalls, typically almost undetectable, seem obnoxiously loud. The gentle thud of her boots against the cement grates on her nerves until she purposefully steps lighter. Heel, then toe. Heel, then toe. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.
She repeats this movement until she reaches the wall ahead of the car. Barely visible against the shadows on the pale grey structure, there’s a patch of metal. Natasha rests her left thumb there until the cool metal has warmed to the same temperature as her skin. There’s a telling click! prompting her to move her hand and the metal slides back and to the side to reveal a light blue panel. It flashes once before a light extends from the spot, taking in her appearance from her waist up. It blinks twice this time, the light shifting from blue to green.
“Romanoff.” She says, staring down the device as if it’s going to argue with her. “Level Six clearance.”
The silence is broken by a series of metallic noises, shifting and clanking until the metal panel slides to cover the light again. For a few moments Natasha is sure Fury - or whoever the public head of SHIELD is now, they've left it pretty vague recently and she’s not all that entangled there anymore - has revoked her access. She would be lying to say she isn’t a little offended at the idea.
Before she has too much time to think on that and actually get offended, the corner of the wall eases back and slides to the side just enough to make room for one person to slide through. She slips through quickly and the wall slides back into place behind her. The materials making up the makeshift entryway grind against each other as they move, evidence of the age of the facility. Despite the offensive noise, Natasha eyes the SHIELD insignia at the end of the hall and feels some of the tightness leave her shoulders. To anyone else the thin hallways and locked doors might seem intimidating. For her it almost feels like coming home.
Much like the parking garage and the rest of the town, the facility is eerily still around her. Evacuated, after the crash? Abandoned, maybe? It wouldn’t be a huge shock for that to be the case. SHIELD has lost a lot in numbers in recent years and anyone who was left after the snap likely weighed their options and ducked out while no one was looking. While she doesn’t necessarily blame them, a part of her thinks Fury would have done it more justice in his time. Her footsteps bounce off of the walls and the sound of her breathing seems to do the same before falling back into her ears.
The empty corridors seem to open up for her, widening themselves to welcome her after such a long time away. Natasha runs her fingertips along the raised insignia on the wall as she passes. The familiar space provides her with a sense of comfort she didn’t even realize she needed. As she wanders toward the command center - some number of hallways and four doors away - her thoughts stray to the past. Images of her and Clint laying low here flash across her mind. The man downing cup after cup of coffee while they reviewed footage in the control room. She remembers when their cover was blown and he ensured that she wasn’t riddled with bullet holes while they ran circles around the city to get them off of their trail. Dodging other agents in the streets. She remembers his uproar of laughter when they finally made it inside and realized she had lost a whole chunk of her hair in the scuffle. Without thinking about it, her hand comes up to move through her blonde locks and feel for the small patch where the hair never quite grew back right.
The mission hadn't gone according to plan. Bad intel and a compromised escape route had led to her raving about the bald spot on her skull for weeks. A ghost of a fond smile twitches across her lips, a whisper of hope curls up in her chest. They had joked, for years after their extended stay in the facility, that this was where they would come to go dark. Not for the first time since then, Natasha hopes Clint remembers too. But when she finally reaches her destination and places her palm flat on the scanner, it's not her partner waiting behind the sliding door. There's no messy brunette hair or expressive blue eyes or lopsided grin and snarky comment to greet her.
"You missed him by about half a day." The man is seated facing one of the consoles, drenched in a pale blue light. She can't see his face but his voice makes her vascular organ crawl from her chest to the back of her mouth to keep her tonsils company. "To be frank I was expecting you a lot sooner, Agent Romanoff."
"The afterlife must not be exciting," as hard as she tries to fight it the words feel thick in her throat. "You had to come home to crash the end of the world?"
Her surprise companion gives a quiet, mirthless laugh as he pushes back the chair and turns to face her. The older man braces a hand on the console to push himself from the seat and Natasha notes that he looks worse for wear. Dark bags hang under his eyes and there are fading bruises across his hands and going from his collarbone to hide under his shirt. He looks thinner in the face, too, maybe due to stress maybe due to a lack of personal care. After a few beats of silence the initial shock gives way to disgruntled and slightly offended anger. It must show on her face, in the tightness of her lips and the set of her jaw, because the man offers a placating smile and a raise of his shoulders.
"I was retired."
"That’s what they always say." Natasha drawls the words, brows pulling together. It takes her a moment to place the emotion burrowing into her chest. Hurt. "Who else knows?"
“Agent May, Maria Hill, Nick Fury, Director Mackenzie. But that was before.” Agent Phil Coulson drops his shoulders as he approaches, and he has the decency to let his expression twist with guilt. "We have a lot to catch up on."
He gestures to the round table near the center of the room, covered in papers with scribbled out information and thick block letters written over them, photos and charts held at the center. Natasha stays standing, planting her hands on the table as she leans to get a better view of his haul. Coulson joins her a moment later, digging a pen out of his pocket and pointing at one of the images closest to them. It looks to be taken from surveillance footage of the room they’re currently in, featuring a hooded man in black and gold hunched over one of the consoles. Beside it is another with the same man, hood pushed over his shoulders to reveal sloppily cut hair. Clint. He certainly doesn’t look good, or quite like himself, but it’s him.
”Barton has been compromised.” Coulson says shortly, rubbing at his bruised hand. For the first time, it occurs to the redhead that their missing associate might be responsible for the state of their old friend. “He’s heading to Kyoto. Tracking down a former affiliate of the Hand.”
The photo beside that is of a woman, hair tied back and one hand extended down to the pages of a book. She looks older than Natasha, but still very fit. On her hip is a long staff that looks like it has a latch near the middle. A hidden blade, maybe. Another shows the event in New York, probably taken from the news footage, a massive structure hovering above the city and one ugly motherfucker standing under it.
Most of the images follow the same vein, some including the Infinity Stones SHIELD had the luck of getting into their hands. The Tesseract, Vision. Coulson points out a few more to her, along with copies upon copies of files and data. A thicker stack of papers is pushed closer to her, labeled boldly at the top with TAHITI. Glancing over it, Natasha eyes the other agent in her peripheral as he gathers up a few papers that must belong together.
”Okay.” She says finally, after their mutual moment of taciturnity passes. “Let’s catch up, then.”
The Andromeda Galaxy
2018
“Okay.”
There’s a room near the back of the Benatar, tucked behind a large rotator. Tony thinks it must have been used for storage, there are nutrient packets, blankets, everyday essentials, and various other nonvaluables scattered throughout the drawers and cabinets. It’s far enough from everything else to ensure some privacy, unless his companion comes looking for him. Which... is unlikely.
Nebula hasn’t shown much interest in him, aside from when he’s grating on her nerves or playfully dancing along the brink of death. To be fair, she hasn’t shown much interest in anything other than patricide, weapons, and piloting their ride. The cyborg probably doesn’t even have interests outside of that. Tony is willing to bet she has a hyperfocusing problem, and maybe that’s why she can’t spare a moment to think of anything outside of that box. This is not a point that would help his case, however, so he’s willing to keep it to himself.
Settled on top of the nearest surface, the face of Iron Man stares back at him before the opticals flicker with a pale blue light that floods the room and takes him in. Audio and video recordings won’t transmit to anywhere useful out in space, but there’s a bit of consolation in being able to record their time spent in the ship and track what they discover. A tiny whisper in the furthest parts of his brain says iftheydon’tmakeit, at leastsomethingwill.
“You would kill me, Pep, if you knew how I got this.” Tony laughs and takes a breath. In his hands is a small glass dish that, upon closer inspection, reveals a tiny metal seal keeping it shut. The small black organism inside has strectched to cover the side nearest his hand as if listening. “I couldn’t pass it up, you would understand.”
The dish vibrates lightly in his hand, the sensation similar to a laugh. He raises it toward his face to examine it up close. The light buzzing has stopped and Tony wonders if maybe the sleep deprivation and blood loss are causing him to hallucinate. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of belief. When he squints and gives it a suspicious look the thing inside flexes and widens to fill the entire container. He’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be able to do that.
”Or maybe you wouldn’t, but it was like... I knew it was important. Whatever it is.” He grumbles, giving the mask a pointed stare. “I’m going to see how it interacts with the nanotech. It’s flexible, seems to be self sustaining. If it can work with the bots I might be able to use it to stabalize my injury and use the nanobots currently taking up residence in my chest - without paying rent, mind you, I should be charging them - to repair the suit. I’ll have to expose it to other elements first, try to figure out what it’s housing...”
The brunette trails off in mutters to himself as he turns the glass containment object in his hand and notes the way the creature inside shifts to accommodate. Eventually it seems to grow bored, sinking itself to one side and firmly rooting itself there no matter which way he rotates it. It seems resilient enough, incredibly capable. But he can’t shake the way Nebula reacted when their Haze had tried to point her to them. The outlaw certainly can’t be described as trustworthy, but it was easy enough to tell he and the luphomoid were on the same side.
“Unfortunately,” he sighs as he hides his new friend away again. “I get the feeling that if I open this, Flubber is going to have a mind of its own and run out on me.”
Leaning back into the wall, Tony shifts his gaze to the large viewport to his right to take in the sight of space. It’s nice and the genius in him wants to explore and discover and learn, but the rest of him is sore and tired and maybe a little delirious. Having his feet planted in the dirt again would be nice. Not questioning whether or not his only companion is going to throw him into space each day would be nice.
”And as much as I would love to be Robin Williams - or even Fred MacMurray, if we’re going old school, and I think we are - it’s pretty clear I’ve been skipping a few workouts.” Tony holds up a hand, shaking his head. “I know, I know, what would Jaq say? Something profound and deeply disturbing enough to make me feel guilty down in my bones.”
The helmet’s brightened gaze doesn’t waver, the jaw doesn’t shift on its hinge to respond to him. The only response he gets is from the distant hum of some machine or another, presumably his alien companion roaming around.
Nebula cut the music a few hours ago, snipping something about the lack of extra resources and the unnecessary usage of power. It’s an unfortunate loss, but it’s worth it to keep breathing and get home. Gethome, the thought has been going over and over in his head like a broken record since they got on this ship. Make it to the next station, don’t get killed in the homicidal version of Blue’s Clues, gethome.
Thinking past that is never good. In the past few months - he’s finally convinced his traveling companion to help him translate a few basic things into something understandable now, so he can keep track of the days - he’s at least learned that much. It all leads back to the same thing: everyone he’s cared for, piled up at the end of a rocky warzone like a bloody signature. Whispered accusations and harsh questions. A black hole opening in his chest, replacing the reactor that kept him alive and draining everything from him. Nothing.
The silence is broken by a harsh release of his breath. “Same time tomorrow?”
The phrase causes the light covering him to fade, the remnants of the Iron Man suit going dark. The brunette reaches up to scratch at his quickly overgrowing beard and then he turnes on his heel to exit the room. He’ll have to shave again, it’s decided. Maybe after he digs up something to eat and tears apart a few more weapons for parts...
”Stark!”
Rather abruptly, Tony is torn from his thoughts by the taller figure stalking toward him from the living quarters. The Luphomoid strikes an imposing figure, though he supposes it’s kind of hard not to when you’re laced with various metals and lethal objects. That doesn’t mean she has to prowl around looking all murder happy like she’s going to spontaneously change her mind about his company and release him into deep space, but to each their own.
“Stark!”
At least she’s not calling him puddlescum or squishyweakling anymore, though, and he’s willing to take that as a win. Hell, he would be willing to risk saying that he’s starting to grow on her. He could write a book on this, when he gets back to New York. ConvincingAliensofYourWorthandFiftyOtherTricksILearnedinSpace by Tony Stark. That would be a best seller, probably. People will read anything these days.
”Why are you staring at me like one of the furry mutts you idolize on your throneworld.” Nebula has her brow drawn down, tapping a finger on one of her arms impatiently. “You did not listen to a single thing I said.”
Tony shrugs and edges past her to get to the small refrigeration unit. “I was in the middle of my next best idea.”
This seems to be acceptable for now, because she nods. “I will...” She pauses, grimacing as if her next words physically hurt her. “I will need you to watch the Benatar.”
Before he can stop it, he snorts. Nebula, daughter of the Titan Thanos, master dueler, enhanced cyborg, needs him to do something. She’s full of shit. And she’s doing a terrible job of hiding it. The muscles in her cheek are twitching like she can barely stop herself from retracting the statement purely due to pride.
”Oh, no, Liara, don’t flatter me.” He snaps the door shut, deciding on something in a light grey packaging that has the consistency of yogurt and the taste of carrot cake. It’s his favorite so far, not that he has many options. “You’re sneaking out on me in the night, like a bad husband.”
“We are low on fuel and supplies.” She says shortly, settling herself at the controls again and putting something in.
Tony mutters his next words around his food, free hand gesturing widely. “So ‘et me c’me w’th you. I can c’rry things.”
”Chew and swallow.” Big, dark eyes look over her shoulder at him. Almost chiding, but mostly annoyed. “I’m sure even you, one of the lowest of life forms, can do that.”
He swallows the last of his food before speaking this time, a little petulantly. ”You’re totally ignoring the point. I’m not going to be very helpful left here.”
“I am not. I was... taking the time to educate you properly, like your guardians failed to do.” She diverts her gaze quickly. “This is a central spaceport. We need to... lay low. Keep our ears down.”
”Heads down.” He corrects her airily. She grunts a response as he discards his trash in the waste and returns to his most recent abandoned project: a partially disassembled shock net. “If we’re going for discreet, I don’t think you’re going to hit the mark.”
“You stick out too much. Humans are uncommon in these circles. You will only be a nuisance.” She shrugs but the movement is jerky, unpracticed, and her voice is sharp. Tony wonders how many times she’s done it before. “You’ll stay. Keep the ship.”
Fishing out a small gear and a cone, Tony leans back and inspects the metal piece on his chest before turning to look at Nebula. She’s staring rather pointedly at a vertical series of numbers on the bottom left of her screen that he has recently learned just represent the date. Trying to look busy, to avoid him. He knows how to recognize that much.
He tries to ignore it and figure out some way to talk her into letting him follow. Focus on trying to make unfamiliar machinery match up with what he already has. But he can’t, it nibbles at the back of his brain and out of the corner of his eye, though, he can see her shifting and placing something in her arm, hears the familiar buzz of an ion blaster powering up. It reminds him of the noise the original Iron Man suit would emit when he first started it up, all heavy metal and artillery. For a second, a brief moment where his feet sink in the sand and his mouth feels dry and dirty, he’s teleported to Afghanistan.
“We’re going to be getting shot at, aren’t we.” He finally deadpans.
“Of course not.” Nebula says quickly, but her tone is tight and her posture is stiff. He thinks her gaze flicks to the side and then back to the controls, but it’s hard to tell.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a terrible liar?” With a roll of his eyes, Tony turns his attention back to his work on the suit.
”No.” She says sharply, turning this time to face him better and blinking. “Am I?”
”Worse than Pinocchio.” He pops the ‘p’ obnoxiously.
Scowling, Nebula rolls her shoulders. “I don’t -“
”- understand that reference, I know.” Tony nods, once. “He’s a puppet.”
This doesn’t seem to get rid of the confusion, as her features only twist more. She manages to look a little offended through her confusion, lips pursed and posture stiff as she turns just enough to glare at him from the corner of her eyes. It’s one of her more common expressions, eagerly handed out when he gifts her with another nickname or starts to question her about hyposprays or Google Glass or VISORS.
“You are a puppet.” The cyborb mutters spitefully, reminiscent of a pouting child as she faces the controls and swipes something to the side. “I am not the one with a set of malleable bones and virtually unprotected brainstem.”
The ship goes quiet again, just for a few beats, as Tony considers all of the new questions he has. Another day, another list of queries for his Luphomoid companion.
Does Nebula think human bones are soft? Do all aliens think humans have soft bones? Is she simply referencing the fact that babies bones fuse together when they get older? Is she joking, maybe? Do most aliens have some kind of special protection for their brainstems? Or are they are in different places? Is she bringing it up simply as a vulnerable splot or is there something more important behind the statement? Something humans don’t know about yet, or maybe something more sinister? Is threatening his life going to be their ‘forever?’
He has tell himself that there will be time to unpack that one and get through the layers of it later.
“His nose grows when he lies.” Tony finally decides to say, disconnecting a train of charges and putting them off to the side. Their cases could be reduced for more nanobite replacement parts, the charges themselves a battery. “Who’s going to be shooting at us?”
Nebula says nothing, refusing to answer for long enough that he begins to wonder if she is really going to avoid the conversation indefinitely. “Sovereign, mostly. Hurctarians. Interdites.”
”Right.” When she doesn’t provide any further explanation or threaten him again, he continues probing. “Those are...?”
”The Sovereign are genetically engineered and wired for perfection. Golden morons. Hurctarians are given cybernetic implants on their skulls during childhood and are very... dry.”
”Dry?” Tony snorts. “Are you taste testing them? Making Hurct-Jerky?”
“Their skin flakes and is replaced over the period of their lunar cycle.” Nebula responds very matter-of-factly. “They require very little hydration and are rumored to enjoy dirt baths.” At the grimace she receives from Tony, she continues. “Interdites are... mystics mostly. Yellow eyes, big ears, hue similar to my own. Their throneworld was rendered uninhabitable during war with the Badoon centuries ago, they frequent these places."
Without giving her any time to even begin explaining, the injured man perks up again. "Badoon?"
"Big, green, reptilian." She waves off his interest in the other lifeforms, going through various stages of preparation. "The Sovereign will be the ones to concern yourself with. If they attempt to board the Benetar you will shoot them."
Tony scoffs, looking up from his project so fast that he accidentally shocks himself. "What, you were just going to have me set up a tea part for them before?"
"You are intuitive." This is the closest to a compliment he's ever gotten from Nebula. He is practically swooning, not that she's turning around to appreciate it. "You would have figured it out."
Somewhere
?
There are a few rules Scott has learned to live by since he becoming an adult. If you can get away with it, it might be worth it still might not be worth it. Don’t start get involved in any fights you can’t win. The people you care about come before everything else. If you see something bad run the other way do something. Don’t believe everything you hear.
And rules he learned as a child. You shouldn’t lie. Sharing is caring. (This one, he found later in life was a funny excuse for light theft.) Admit when you’re wrong. Respect your elders. Don’t talk to strangers.
”How far away did you say you were?” Scott poses his question into the radio, giving the blue light a number of feet away his most suspicious look. “Not that I’m rushing you or anything, the view out here is uh... Something.”
Right on cue, one of the large beasts inhabiting the Quantum Realm makes a path overhead. And then, the communicator crackles to life with mirth. “Ididn’t.”
“Well...” The tardigrade circles back, lingering over his still unnamed vehicle. “Are you going to?”
Whatever comes next is covered by static, an interruption in the signal that is bound to come when you’re not really in the world as you know it. It had happened when he was on with the Pyms, too, quickly enough that he was able to ignore it. This time it seems to last much longer. The static thickens until it becomes physical, thick under his tongue and buzzing around his fingers and numbing his cheeks.
The world shifts around him, from warm hues to cool ones. All the ice on the edges melts and drifts and blues go purple, the whites ombre to green. In the distance bubbles collide and combust, leaving fragments that spark when they touch the ground. The ground underneath his feet decays and goes dark before a light burns underneath and breeds color to the surface again. Stars collapse and batteries go dead and civilizations crumble and crawl up from the rubble and Scott wonders if he’s been here forever, if he’s going to be like this forever.
The static burns his ears. Scott feels like he can taste it near his tonsils, feels like all he’s ever heard is this blurred television cut signal static moving from one ear and making a path through his auriculars and around the hills and valleys of his brain to reach the other side.
“- Irepeat, thisisAgentMarvel requestingclearancethroughallavailablechannels.”
Ahead of him, the blue light blinks out of existence and then back a few feet closer. The echo of roaring waves in Scott’s head simmers down to the sound of a sink filling.
He puts his elbows onto the cracked dashboard of the Helicanter - because, really, he has to call it something - and lets his head hang while he reminds himself to breathe. It can’t have been more than a moment, a few minutes, but maybe this is what Janet meant when she said being here changes people. Maybe Quantum Entanglement has more to do with this realm digging a hole into your person than they thought. It might be good to compare notes when he gets back, if he remembers more of his experiencw this time.
”I don’t think you’re on the right frequency for that.” He manages finally, eyes squeezed shut.
”You’reback.” Captain Marvel, as he knows her, sounds surprised. “Wheredidyougo?” She asks.
Scott doesn’t know how to answer that, without getting into the specifics and that seems a little too heavy for this scenario. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
”Nowthat,” she starts with a huff. “Ifindhardtobelieve. Icouldsaythesametoyou, aboutwhereI’vebeen.”
”Yeah?” He snorts and lifts his head, watches the blue light drift around him and away again as the masses in the distance mold into new forms. “Try me.”
Wakanda
2018
The end of the world has taught people to appreciate the little things. The picturesque sight of orange and red hues colliding with the green outline of trees as the sun drops away. Warm coffee at dawn, when the city starts to wake up. The sounds of what should be a city in the day, bustling and full of life. Moments bursting at the seams with laughter and jokes and the company of another person.
There are a lot of things that no one can find time to appreciate, now. Things that you can’t find in the ashes of Earth.
Which is how Rocket finds himself on the outer edges of Shuri’s home they’ve invaded, in a room with tall glass ceilings and windows that never end. It’s filled with greenery. Trees and bushes and different grasses and weeds, flowers and snapping plants and vines crawling along one of the would-be walls. In the center of the room is an extraordinarily tall tree. It climbs past the ceiling, shifting through a carefully crafted gap and providing a small amount of shade to the area. Beyond that is a more colorful variety of plantlife, scattered along the walkways and hanging from the ceilings and windows.
The greenery looks like it’s hardly been touched since the snap, aside from a few carefully maintained plants and herbs. The raccoon wonders if whoever cared for it before died in the snap or simply lost their desire to care for it after losing everything else. It’s well enough for him, though. He can scale the trees and get away from most people. The hideaway certainly isn’t home, but Rocket would be lying if he said it doesn’t calm his nerves.
“Rabbit!”
Of course, he’s learning very quickly that Wakanda full of enhanced humans and god men is full of as many disruptions as space was with the Guardians running around it.
Rocket rolls on the branch he’s decided to occupy, staring up at the leaves and the light filtering through them. Thor is the only one plucky enough to keep chasing him down. He has some kind of Rocket Radar, tracking him down in record time every day. Out of the corner of his eye he can see the hulking blonde approaching, stepping over pots and occasionally stopping to whisper conspiratorially to some of the plants. The sight of his form towering over the plants as he bends down to encouragingly pat them is kind of funny.
It isn’t that he dislikes Thor, quite the opposite really. But having more than ten minutes of peace might be nice.
”Alright, Rabbit, it is time to come down.” The aforementioned man clears his throat. “I can see your tail, you can no longer pretend you are not up there.”
The voice reaching him from the base of the tree causes him to startle. He hadn’t even noticed him getting closer. Apparently the god can be stealthy when he wants to be. Heaving a long sigh, the raccoon rolls to the side and off of the branch. His vest catches on the bark on the way, but it’s withstood worse. At the halfway mark, Rocket curls his claws into a branch to stop again. From there it’s an easy enough drop, and his claws make a distinct click! when he hits the floor.
“How’d ya know I was up there?” He asks finally, looking up at his companion.
Giving him a thousand watt smile, the short haired man gestures to a vibrant yellow plant. “The fig told me.”
”Bullshit.” Rocket snipes, teeth clacking together. “The fig told you. You have a special course on talking to all the terran flora, too?”
”Maybe.” Thor replies cheekily.
Rocket huffs, pushing at the Asgardian’s leg as he passes. He takes the action in stride, keeping step with the raccoon easily. The axe on his hip swings as he walks, wood and metal and the last remnants of his sentient tree-like friend.
The first few weeks, he had waited for something to sprout from the wood intricately wound around the joint axe-hammer. He had expected Groot to spring up from the end with a recognizable shimmy, as if nothing ever happened. But Stormbreaker never budged, never showed any signs of new life. Whatever Asgardian magic has been woven into the Uru metal has made it something else entirely, there’s no pieces left of his friend for him to re-spawn from.
“What now?” Rocket asks blandly. “The mint give you a great new recipe for me to try? Did the lilacs tell you a secret? No, wait, I’m betting the dandelions gave you some tips on interstellar communications.”
”Don’t be outlandish, Rabbit.” Thor shakes his head. “Weeds aren’t advanced enough to converse with us.”
He’s full of shit. Rocket knows it, he knows it, the entirety of Wakanda probably knows it with how long they've been there. Over the past few months - three months, one week, six days - the rebel king has been testing all of them. Pretending to be ignorant to things he definitely knows about, like wormholes. Pretending to know all about things he's entirely ignorant of, like Earth's technology and more specifically how email works. And now, pretending to communicate with the local flora and fauna. Or... maybe pretending that the only kind he can't talk to is weeds. Rocket isn't sure which one is more likely.
"Unfortunately." Rocket sighs eventually, eying the plant life suspiciously as they pass. "They've probably got more to talk about than any of you."
"I find that unlikely." The large man laughs, but the tone of his words isn't quite so sunny. "They have remarkably short lifespans in comparison to even yours, but especially my own."
"And yet, I'm sure they could find something more interesting to talk about."
Shaking his head, Thor begins to lead the way through the winding halls of the palace. "Okay, my friend, I will give you interesting. You have an assignment.”
”Assigment?” Rocket sneers the word, squinting up his companion. “I don’t remember agreein’ to being an underling for your band of merry bastards.”
”Fine.” Thor shrugs amicably. “Then I would ask you to do me a favor.”
Normally, the raccoon would demand a reward. But desperate times... “Alright.”
”I would ask that you travel to our compound with Steven -“
”- who the hell is Steven?” Rockets snaps indignantly.
The blonde frowns, tries again. ”Captain America -“
"- Captain Do-Good?" Rocket spits, fur bristling, as he tries to restrain himself. “You're sendin' me to the other side of the planet with that guy? Seriously?"
"I assure you, Steven is an ideal traveling companion.” Thor nods to him, for all intents and purposes the picture of reassuring.
The conversation is interrupted by a sigh and a tight, tired voice. ”He also has superb hearing.”
Just down the hall a few doors, someone is waiting for them. Tall, blonde, built similar to the Asgardian aside from his height and a slight weight difference. The original Avengers is frowning at them, expression on the borderline of offense. Rocket, determined to ignore the social blunder he’s sure he is currently enduring, strides right past him.
Both of the humans follow him into the room, the door shutting with a nearly silent shhck! behind them. If he were more informed of Earth, and the normal interactions between species here, Rocket would make some kind of joke about being on the opposite end of the leash. That kind of thing is right up his alley, a little harsh and properly humiliating with just a dash of self deprecation around the corner.
“None of us know what Tony was researching before the attack.” Steve says as they’re getting settled, the Asgardian perching on a stool that certainly doesn’t look meant to bear his weight and the raccoon clawing his way onto a countertop.
”I’m sorry, but not really,” Rocket chortles as he seats himself. “Are you saying one single person from your planet was capable of comin’ up with something better than the entire galaxy?”
”No.” The man out of time grimaces.
”He -“ Rocket waves to Thor with one paw and the indicated man waves, “- has a Thanos-oriented-redemption-fueled battle axe.”
The superhuman drops his shoulders and seems to be debating with himself, the corners of his eyes creased and jaw set. Whatever conclusion he’s coming to doesn’t look to be positive. The other man in the room looks to be deep in thought, staring past the beige cabinets and into something no one else can see. All the raccoon sees is the two of them, looking less present than he’s ever seen anyone in a moment like this. And that’s a lot, considering who he’s been partnered with recently.
“He’s right.” Just as Rocket is puffing up with delight at the positive recognition, Thor continues. “Stark had been preparing for this since Ultron.”
“Wanda never told us what she showed him.” Steve interjects, brows high on his forehead.
”That does not mean the results of whatever he prepared for could not be useful.”
The two go quiet, exchanging a look. Rocket waits, confused and a little irritated at being out of the loop. He’s not getting something, obviously. There’s some backstory, some context, he’s missing here. It’s like he has half of a puzzle, but mostly the outside edges. And the more they look at each other, the further back his ears fall until he’s pulling his lips back in a scowl.
He lets the silence drag, his impatience causing him to dig his claws across the stone of the countertop. The more he waits, the more apparent it becomes that there isn’t going to be a long winded explanation coming up unless he digs for one. Unfortunately, Rocket doesn’t care to do that. Any attempts at story time this far have only agitated him, and it wouldn’t be surprising for this to end the same way. So he’ll wait, instead. Let the two humanoid figures in the room hold their nonverbal conversation until they remember they’re not alone.
”S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying to build containment cubes, like the Tesseract.” Steve says after what feels like centuries. “That was their plan for the Mind Stone, the scepter, until von Strucker stole it.”
”You think he would attempt the same.” Thor returns, voice even but expression concerned.
Taking a breath, the poster-child for righteousness nods. “Vision was a success.”
Isn’t that the disembodied voice in the lab? Vision... That sounds right, but with all the new and unfamiliar faces Rocket can’t be sure.
”Vision and his body were more than a triumph of Stark.” The taller man points out, cocking his head to the side. “There were many hands in that pot.”
Speaking of hands in the pot, the raccoon shuffles his way across the counter until he can reach one of the little round storage pods balanced on the surface. He’s been swiping them from every room he can find, partially for the novelty of having a thousand perfect spheres that don’t roll and partially for the goods inside. Sometimes it’s books or electronics, handmade items, but most often they’re filled with snacks and Rocket considers that a win-win. This one in particular is home to cookies that smell like ginger and give a satisfying snap! when he halves them.
“Everything with Ultron would have been stepping stones for this.” Steve says firmly, already convinced.
Apparently that’s all it takes because the Asgardian nods and rises. ”When will you leave?”
”In the morning.”
”Hold up.” Rocket snaps another cookie in half, one paw in the air as if to hit ‘pause’ on the conversation. “Did I agree to go anywhere? What do I get out of this?”
First to the draw is Thor. “The chance to explore a new planet and to gain new experiences?”
“The satisfaction of making literally any amount of effort to do something?”
”No, that doesn’t sound right.” Rocket taps a claw on his treat before popping it into his mouth and crunching it between his canines obnoxiously. “Access to and first call on everything.”
”Everything?” Steve grimaces again, clearly unsure, and looks to the other blonde for help.
“Everything.” Rocket agrees, trying and failing to put a whole cookie in his maw before he gives up and breaks that one too. “I’m talkin’ potted plants, engineered appendages, mechanics, wiring, food. Definitely the food.”
The human looks around, another obvious cry for assistance from their Asgardian companion. All he receives in response is a halfhearted shrug and a lopsided frown to say ‘wedon’thavealotof other options.’ Rocket gets it. If someone were pawing at all of their belongings on the ship and taking what they please, he certainly wouldn’t take kindly to it either. But, judging from what he’s heard so far, the missing mechanic isn’t going to be needing the equipment any time soon. It’s unlikely, if not impossible, that he’s survived any confrontation woth Thanos or his children. Man of Metal or not, there are limits to what one human can do. And if he isn’t going to be around to make use of his things, well, there’s no point in letting it go to waste.
Flicking his tail, the raccoon lifts his shoulders at Steve and tries again. “Fair’s fair.”
”Zero six hundred, feet off the ground.” The captain says finally, rubbing a hand on his cheek, and Rocket has to force himself not to inflate at the victory. “Have everything you need ready by then.”
”Worry about yourself, Cap.” He taps a claw on the countertop, baring his teeth in a wide grin. “I’m not the one who has to pack my luggage.”