Cataclysmic
Portola, California,
2020
Steve hasn't told them.
Doesn't know how to tell him. The same way Bruce did, a few hours ago? The same way he was told everyone he knew was dead, when he came out of the ice? What about the way they were told about Coulson, however much of a lie it was?
None of those options seem fitting or appropriate. If he's being honest, Steve hasn't even fully digested the information himself. He's been rolling it over in his head since he spoke to Bruce, trying to reason with himself and not dig into grief that surfaced and subsided two years ago. The Snap had been unstoppable, a force that moved without thought or justification, that took without bias. Accepting that it had taken people from them was one thing. There was nothing they could do, after it happened. Knowing now that they could have done something for just one of them is something else entirely. Coming to terms with the fact that they did nothing, that they made the wrong choice, feels impossible.
It doesn't cross his mind, not one single time or for even a fraction of a second, to not tell them. Steve can't do that to anyone else, the way he did it to Tony. He knows now that that, too, was the wrong choice. So he will tell them, as soon as the words present themselves to him. As soon as he can stop his thoughts from pulling him out of reality for more than a number of minutes at a time.
"Is it time for lunch?" Happy has seated himself on a bench, staring longingly across the street at a quaint bakery. "It feels like it's time for lunch."
"Oh man," bouncing on his heels a couple feet away, Luis grins. "I had a girl once, who broke up with me when I got out, which was pretty harsh but she raised some good points you know? She worked at this Italian joint up here, Cala-ta-ta I think, and they've got this pasta with the little green veggies that blew my mind." He rubs at his stomach, as if the memory has put the foot in his stomach. "And they bake the bread in-house, so it's like the softest bread I've ever eaten - you can dip it in garlic butter, practically melts in your mouth."
"It definitely sounds like lunch time." The words are a sigh, and Happy looks at Steve in question. "You like Italian?"
Of course Steve likes Italian. The question is ridiculous. But Steve isn't hungry, and he's finding it hard to focus on the topic of food at all. Not that he can focus on their actual mission at hand of finding Scott, either. A few hours ago it was the only thing he was thinking of, dragging them around California in an old beater to keep under the radar and searching cities from one side to the other.
"I'm good." The response is met with a grimace from Happy and wide, pleading eyes from Luis. They shouldn't take a break, but stopping to eat sounds reasonable enough. "Go on ahead."
Luis squints at him, frowning. "You don't like Italian?"
"Everyone likes Italian." Happy argues, looking as if he very well might resign from their taskforce if Steve does say he isn't a fan of the food.
"I do like Italian." Steve mostly says this to get rid of the look on the other man's face, and earns a nod for his contribution to the discussion. "I'll catch up."
This reassurance is enough for Luis, who practically skips to the driver's side of their vehicle and slips into the seat. He buckles his seatbelt and adjusts the seat to get comfortable, but Happy hesitates to follow. He stands and looks at Steve, making the man out of time wonder if he's more perceptive than they all give him credit for. It would make sense, having been practically handcuffed to Tony and Pepper for all these years.
"You sure you're not lying to me about liking Italian?" Happy's words are a light question, but the tone holds a more serious inquiry. "You know you could tell me." He smiles, a small offering. "I'd never look at you the same again, of course, but..."
Steve laughs, and places a hand on the brunette man's shoulder to give it a squeeze. "I'm sure, Harry."
"No one calls me that." He shakes his head, and the blonde withdraws his arm. "You're making me feel old."
"We are old." A long fingered hand gestures to the car, where Luis is peering at them curiously.
Happy frowns at him, but he opens the door nonetheless. "You can say you're old as much as you like, I'm still thirty-seven." The snort from the man in the driver's seat makes him try again. "Thirty-eight?"
"You're not fooling anyone." Steve rests a hand on the top of the open car door, leaning down a little to level them with a more stern look now. "If anything happens -"
"We call you." Happy parrots back at him.
"If we see anything -" Luis is doing a ridiculously bad impression of him, unable to stop smiling.
The two men in the car share a look of humor as Happy finishes again: "We call you."
"Alright, I get it." Steve steps back and shuts the door, and the window rolls down slowly. "Be careful. Be safe."
Luis is already starting the car, tapping his fingers on the wheel giddily. He nods enthusiastically to indicate that he's heard him, and puts the car in drive. Then he pauses, thinks about it, and puts it back in park. He plants one hand on the middle console and leans over Happy's lap, who leans away with a huff, to show off his pearly whites in a wide smile. It still baffles Steve, and likely everyone else, how much joy he still finds in the little things. Like a good, hot lunch.
"We'll save you some breadsticks!" He cheerfully tells him, and then he's leaning back into his own seat and out of Happy's personal space.
The car pulls away from the parking spot, abandoning the sidewalk and Steve with it. It's the first time he's been alone, totally by himself, in weeks. Aside from trips to relieve his bladder or shower, anyway. The three of them have been connected at the hip since departing from California. Taking turns sleeping in the car as they drive around the state, because it's easier to track down the van and Scott on ground level than soaring above. Sharing hotel rooms and lofts owned - formerly owned - by a genius with who could find gold in copper.
Feeling more like the scrawny and bumbling man he was before his, as Shuri would call it, man-made glow up Steve takes a deep breath. Closing his eyes, repeats the action. Tries to remind himself of how to enjoy something so minute, so easily disregarded or taken for granted. Fresh, clean air circulates through his lungs and tickles his lips as he exhales. Not the stale air of a jet or plane, accompanied by sweat, and worry, and fear. Not the thick, gritty air of a battlefield where it seems like the dirt will never settle as it stings his eyes and leaves residue on his teeth. Not cold as it exits his mouth, followed immediately after by wet, and freezing, and sacrifice.
Blue eyes open and around him life is continuing. People are exiting the bakery and the door opening wafts the scent of muffins and croissants still warm from their time in the oven. A man rides by on his bike. In the park to his right, a dog fetches a frisbee while its owner hollers in pride.
That's sort of the problem here, though. Steve wants to be happy that the world is moving on, that the air refreshes his lungs, that the sun is still shining and the weather is still pleasant. The world is picking itself back up. There are meetings for people who lost loved ones to the - a the public has not-so-fondly deemed it - the Blip. Elections and nominations and decisions being made about who will take newly opened positions of important or authority. Reconstructive efforts slowly but surely fixing the superficial damage.
Steve wants to be happy, and he knows he should be happy, but he isn't. Two years later he's still mourning and bitter and dejected. Wondering what they could, or should, have done to change the outcome. Contemplating what he could have done, could have not done, years down the line to make a difference in the series of events that caused all of this. There are, of course, times where he is. Times where he looks around them and finds nothing but faith and hope in the resilience of the world and the people in it. It's taken time, but everything is led up to by a series of stepping stones with different levels of importance.
Today is not one of those times.
It doesn't take a genius to know that standing here, lamenting and gracing begrudging thoughts, won't do him any good. Or anyone else, for that matter, and there are people who need him to do more than that. So Steve shakes himself out of it and tries to put his thoughts away, lock them behind a brown door to a small apartment miles as far away from the present as possible. Tells himself that there's a better place and time for it than in the middle of a street in Portola.
One hand reaches up to scratch at the coarse hair returning to his cheeks. It, as well as his hair, have grown out a little more than he would like. It hasn't occurred to him until now to shave and cut his hair again. The news of Scott, the potential of getting something accomplished, distracted him from some of the finer aspects of personal care. A distraction from his lack of tending to his appearance comes in the form of his phone vibrating in his pocket. Steve's reaction is immediate, like the gentle buzzing against his leg flips a switch and the Captain America rooted in his skull makes itself known.
He doesn't even check the caller i.d. as he pulls it out and answers, lifting it to his ear. "Happy -"
"That you answered so quickly?" Definitely not Happy. "Yes. Very prompt, I appreciate the sense of urgency."
Another voice comes through, also not Happy, laughing. "If only we all had a little pep in our step."
"Is this a business call?" Steve sighs and rests a hand on the bench, leaning his weight there.
"Maybe." He can hear Natasha's smile through the phone.
"Well," Carol sounds more like she's trying to contain herself. "Mostly."
"Right." A nod, before Steve realizes it the gesture is pointless over the phone. He doesn't want to ask, but he needs to know. "Has Bruce...?"
"He called." Natasha probably isn't smiling anymore. He can hear how tight her words are, the way her body language likely mimics it.
When they both falter to continue, Carol is willing to take the reigns for them. "Actually..."
"It's why you're calling." The exhaustion is clear in his voice even to Steve. He grimaces and is grateful that they can't see the sour expression. "I haven't told -"
"No." Carol is quick to stop him, sounding like she doesn't really know how to handle any of that. "No. I wasn't going to ask that." Relief floods his veins, relaxing his muscles. "I'm leaving."
"Earth." Natasha clarifies, as if he couldn't grasp that himself.
"I had assumed." He rolls his eyes and Natasha snorts.
"I'm going to see if I can track the signal." Carol informs him. "Recover... the ship."
"The ship." Steve repeats dully. "Right." Because there's nothing else to get back, and expecting more after what they saw and heard in the transmissions is unrealistic. Bruce had been very clear about it, sounding drained and torn. "When?"
"Six hours, approximately."
He doesn't really want to think about that, about her going out there, about what she won't find and the remains of what she will. "Wheels up?"
"No."
"No?" Steve shouldn't be surprised. He knows Carol is faster than the ship itself, but... He wishes she would take it, just to give the illusion of hope. Pretend, for the rest of them, that she might find something out there.
"I was thinking," Natasha cuts into his thoughts with a hum. "It might be beneficial to send someone else out there."
"Divide and conquer." Carol puts in.
"That never worked out well for us in the past." Steve doesn't like any of it.
Like the Accords never happened, like she wasn't there to witness their lives being disassembled, Natasha keeps going. "We're not the only ones out there, Steve."
"There are more planets than you would believe." The comment from Carol does nothing for his nerves. "They're dealing with the effects of this too."
"We haven't even settled everything here." His protest sounds weak. "We can't afford to send people into uncharted territory to help people who might not even want it."
"Isn't that what we've always done?" Natasha makes a good point, but Steve has elected to ignore it.
"Look how that worked out for us." As much as he tries not to let it, the bitterness coats every word. "We're already spread too thin."
"What do you have left to lose?" Carol's challenge is met with cold dread in his stomach.
"Enough." Steve breathes the word. "The Accords already split us up once, and we failed individually."
"Just because you're not together doesn't make you any less of a team."
"It doesn't make us any stronger, either."
Natasha makes a thoughtful noise. "But if there are others out there who could help -"
"If there are people we can help -" Carol interjects.
"That does."
"It might." Steve corrects her sternly. "We don't know what's out there -"
"I do, actually." Carol sounds offended at having been forgotten.
"Sorry." He doesn't feel very sorry.
Natasha adds, "Thor and Rocket do."
"That's not the point." He's outnumbered, cornered. Steve gets the feeling they made a decision long before anyone called him.
"And what is the real point?" Carol counters smoothly.
"Steve." Natasha's voice is gentle. "If Tony was out there, who else could be?"
For starters, not Tony. Because he's dead. Because they assumed and they left him out there and he died with no one there. Steve knows that doesn't mean there's nothing and no one out there, and he cares. He does. That doesn't make it any easier to risk even more by going out there, or sending someone out there, splitting themselves again. There's no knowing what they could run into or find. His desire to help doesn't automatically outweigh the negative possibilities.
"You can't let what happened in the past stop us from acting now."
Steve knows Carol means well, but her input isn't really helping anything. "You weren't there."
"I don't have to have been there to know you were wrong."
"Excuse me?" Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, Carol leaves him befuddled.
"You were wrong then." She says calmly, and his fingers curl into the top of the bench hard enough to leave indents. "And you're wrong now."
"There was no right side to be on." Steve has come to terms with that over the years. None of them were right, but they should have all picked one side. Stayed on common ground. "Letting someone else make our decisions wouldn't have been any better."
Carol clicks her tongue at him. "Comprise would have been better."
"Things aren't always that simple."
"It could have been." There's no way to play it back, no way to be sure, but he thinks Natasha's voice wavers in the beginning.
"You're taking her side." Steve says flatly. It's more a statement than a question, but he just wants to make sure he's not misunderstanding this.
"Don't sound so surprised." Natasha sighs. "The ways things turned out hasn't changed my mind."
"I've read the Accords." Carol informs them, and when neither has something to say she continues. "You should have signed."
Steve has to force himself to let go of the metal edge of the bench. He grimaces at the marks he's left, and turns to put his backside against it and look out at the park. "Reading the papers doesn't mean you know what was happening."
"But I know what they were offering you -"
"Offering?" He laughs and brings his hand up to rub at his forehead. "That's rich."
If nothing else, Natasha at least seems to agree with him here. "They weren't exactly offering us things so much as threatening to put us on the raft if we refused."
"Regardless," Carol waves off the important detail casually. "Mediation of power is important. It makes people feel safe."
"Even if they aren't." Natasha comments dryly.
"Even if they aren't." She repeats the statement in confirmation. "You wouldn't been been driving, but you would have been in the passenger seat."
"Funny," it isn't actually funny but Natasha does have an odd sense of humor. "That sounds familiar."
It's hard to come up with a proper argument when they're parroting each other like that and formally ganging up on him. They have a point, yes, and Steve is willing to admit that. But they're not totally right, either. It isn't fair that they won't recognize that. Steve is aware that's a childish argument, a silly reason to be getting frustrated. He just can't help it.
"We're not weapons." Steve tries after taking a moment to collect himself. "We're people. We didn't - we don't - need to be controlled by someone else."
"He's not wrong." Comes Natasha's steady voice through the speaker.
"But we are dangerous." Carol reasons evenly, standing her ground. "Without mediation we're no better than the people we've taken a stand against. You don't get to make your own rules."
"We were protecting people." He can't help but think of all the people they couldn't protect, though. All the things they could have done better.
"Well," comes the sharp response through the speaker. "If you were Sally in Connecticut with two kids, four dogs, a job in marketing, and enjoyed the American Dream of picket fences and soap operas, would you feel comforted by the idea of a ragtag team of potentially dangerous and otherworldly beings running around right after the Predator got reenacted in real life? No?"
Steve knows how hard it was for people to accept the world changing around them, then. He remembers the news reports that followed the event in New York, the questions of just how long the Avengers had been involved and why the public was unaware of the level of danger coming toward them. The articles Tony picked over online with blurry pictures and inquiries about the man who led the attack. Debates over whether or not there was some conspiracy, if the damage could have been avoided, if the Avengers played as much of a part in starting the conflict as they did in saving the city.
Of course there was just as much praise as suspicion, in the beginning. For every remark on their 'unchecked power' or 'recklessness' there was one thanking them or wondering how much worse the destruction would have been if they hadn't intervened. That, like many things, changed over time.
The more work they did, the more public their activities became. And the more public things became, the more people started tallying up casualties and property damages. Steve doesn't blame anyone for holding them accountable, for questioning the agendas of the government, the military, SHIELD, the Avengers - because they should. Because he knows they made mistakes and he remembers each one.
"Trying to do right or not, it doesn't matter." Carol says. "Restrictions make people feel safe. Being in control makes people feel safe. If you had yielded, they would have felt safe."
"And who gets to decide what those restrictions are? Who gets to decide who places those restrictions? Who gets to decide what we can and can't be involved in?" Steve prattles, aimlessly letting his eyes wander over the grass and the trees. "There has to be a line."
"Power has to be checked." Her argument echoes the one he had with Tony years ago, causes a sharp pain behind his ribs. "If you're above being regulated, so is everyone else with enhancements."
Natasha puts in: "We're not the only ones the Accords impact."
"Exactly." Carol sounds satisfied, like she's won. She sort of has by numbers alone. "You aren't even fully aware of the potential number of enhanced individuals, threats or not, on your own planet."
Making a noise of frustration, Steve frowns at the scenery. "Not everyone needs to be regulated. What about the people just trying to live? Survive? Are we supposed to police them, too?"
"Yes." Carol says firmly.
"You can't tell me you've never wanted a normal life." Steve scoffs at her.
"I haven't."
"Fine." He lets it go, because that's not the point. "You haven't. Who are we to deny that to someone who has? Who does? Taking away their freedom, their right to decide, is no better than trying to put people in cages. These are people, not animals. This is their home not a zoo."
"If they want a normal life they can have one." He can practically feel Carol shrugging through the phone. "After they register officially."
"They'll never be left alone. You have to know that."
"They shouldn't be." Carol sounds so sure, so convinced, that it sucks the life out of him. "And with good reason."
"Why? Because they're not baseline?"
"Because," Natasha's words are soft and slow, like she can hear the ache in his words. "They're as dangerous as we are."
"The Kree Starforce failed because all of the power was in one place, with one being." Carol tells them, sounding far away. "There was war, and conflict, and no one questioned whether or not what we were doing was right. We believed, had faith, that we were doing what was right. We let blind trust and our own values and goals lead us."
There's a pause, and Natasha saves them from an extended period of awkward silence. "You were wrong."
"We were wrong." She says, and her tone is grim. "In our position of power we felt right, we thought we were doing the universe a service. We ignored the signs we should have seen from the people we thought we were helping, and the people we brought destruction. Ignored the casualties of our actions without a fraction of accountability or consideration. That could have been avoided, and we will not repeat those mistakes."
Steve watches the wind ruffle the leaves on the trees and the grass dancing in response, tries to force the air in and out of his lungs. "How can you be sure?"
"I can't." Is the simple admission.
"But we can try." Natasha cuts in. "We have a chance to do better."
"For who?" Steve blows out a sigh that makes the speaker against his ear crackle in irritation. "For us?"
"For everyone." Carol sounds so adamant, so convinced, it's hard not to waver in his position. "The Registration Act."
"What?" Steve asks, blinking a few times. He feels like the conversation has taken a turn without him.
"It's what the Accords will be renamed." The blonde woman says simply and Steve knows, without question, that he's lost. "When they're officially amended and signed."
Upstate New York
2020
Death is nothing more than a passing of the time, a transition from this realm to another. To Valhalla, if you're a worthy warrior. A unavoidable consequence of life. Something that, eventually, reaches everyone. Whether it happens immediately, or in months from one's birth, or in years, or in decades, or in centuries. It reaches everyone, one way or another. Time does nothing to halt it, and the universe continues to turn despite it.
Death is a mistress that everyone spends a night with, willingly or not.
Thor knows this, and accepted it long ago. When he was young and still learning how to properly run the battlefield and seamlessly choreograph a dance of clashing weapons and conflict. He's seen many people die in his time. Some good and some bad. Some who deserved to meet Her, and many more who didn't. She's passed him many times in the span of his life, smiled at him slyly as she bypassed him and took the people around him. Thanked him with a whisper of wind kissing his cheek as she took his foes with her and ended their suffering. Appreciated their sacrifice and his gift, whether it was meant to be one or not.
Her shadow has followed him, teasing him, for so long She feels like a friend. She was there when his mother died, consoling him from her shadow as the life slipped from her eyes and the magic in her veins failed her. She was there for his father, pulling the last flakes of his form with Her on the wind over the ocean. She was there for all of his comrades, all of his brothers in arms, as they faced their final moments and left him.
The one place he never saw her was with Loki. Thor figures this makes sense for the first few times, since his death was a farce. All those years ago, it had been easy to reason that he wasn't worthy of taking Her hand. But She wasn't there on the ship, either, when Thanos wound his fingers around the God of Mischief's neck and tightened his grip until a 'crack!' that still echoes in his ears tore through the air.
Maybe he still wasn't worthy, after everything. Maybe Thor is seeing his form through a filter that paints him as a better man than he was. Or maybe all of his impersonations of Her left some amount of spite. Maybe this resignation to a meaningless death, a lonely trip to his last breaths, was his punishment from Her.
"Are you still there?"
Bruce's question stalls his thoughts, pulls him back to the room around him. Back to the new information on the table. Back to the Avengers Compound, and the lab he's been in since Doctor Selvig called him down to answer the other scientist's call. The older man is seated across from him, one hand holding a pen and the other laying flat on top of a detailed diagram. Between them on the tabletop is a phone, settled on top of various discarded papers.
"Yes." Erik responds for him, expression shockingly calm. "We're still here."
"Thor?"
"Of course." But he doesn't really feel like he's here. "It would be rude to wander."
"I wouldn't blame you if you had." Bruce admits, sounding tired. Thor thinks he sounds tired a lot, these days, but it's understandable. "Carol wants you and Rocket to go out."
"You're the best ones for the job." Erik reasons, and the Asgardian nods without really listening. "But dividing our resources..."
"It's risky."
Thor lifts his large shoulders in a shrug and looks around the room again. The technology Tony has here is behind what they had on his throneworld, but impressive nonetheless. The PDS is likely the best defense system he's seen on such a large scale. A bit optimistic and outlandish, but achievable with work. With more technology, more resources, more advanced minds. It might be easier to do, if more of his notes and plans made sense. And if this were Thor's area of expertise which, you know, it just kind of isn't.
While he isn't an idiot by any means, Thor is willing to admit this isn't quite his bag of treats. His knowledge can only get them so far, despite the abundance of it. It's Rocket's, more than anyone's. So it makes sense to send the both of them, with their combined array of skills and knowledge on this and the universe at large. Rocket knows what they potentially need, they both know where and how to get it, they both know how to prepare, know what to prepare for, both have connections outside of Earth, and they're both strong enough to survive the journey regardless of the circumstances.
"Without risk you cannot profit." Thor sits a little taller as he makes his decision. Having a direction, a path, settles some of the waves in his chest and his head. "When do we depart?"
"Well..."
"Well?" Erik prompts, and his brows raise. "Is there something we should know?"
"I was hoping he was heading your way."
"Rabbit?" Frowning, Thor peers at the phone.
"He left."
"He left?" Erik looks surprised this time, dropping his pen and blinking at the phone rapidly. "When?"
"After we -" Bruce's voice catches and he stops, pauses before trying again. "After we found Tony's messages."
The older man gives Thor a questioning look and continues when he gets a shake of his head in response. "Why?"
"He was angry."
"I thought he was always angry?"
Thor waves a hand at that, frowning. "No, no. He is simply expressing his fondness for us."
Erik grimaces, looking down. "I'll take your word for it, my friend."
"He's not wrong." Bruce hold nothing but sorrow in his tone, tight regret that leaks through the phone and dampens the air from hours away. "To be angry, I mean."
"That doesn't make running away right." Selvig sighs. "We can't afford to displace ourselves like this."
"That's what we thought months ago, too." The next words are quieter, likely not intended to be heard. "But we should have."
"None of us could have known." Thor says, even if he knows it's little consolation. Running around space without a clear goal wouldn't have done them any good. Their chances of locating the Benetar are low even now, and they have something to go off of. "There is no one at fault here."
"We couldn't have been sure." Bruce's correction is strained, painful to hear. "Rocket told us we should have gone."
"We didn't know where to go. We still don't." Erik points out, trying to play the voice of reason. "We don't even know how long ago they... How long it's been, accurately, since the last one."
As much as he tries to play the middle ground, his words shake with a heavy release of his breath. Erik has lost people, too, and it's easy to forget that with how stable he seems. His life has changed, in ways it hasn't since Thor first came into his life, again. The two young women he regarded as family are gone. His family, if he had any left, are likely gone. His job has been reduced to nothing. All of his research is the only thing he has left, the only thing he has to turn to in his attempts to reconcile with and fix everything that has broken around them.
Thor wonders if She was there for those lost in the snap. If She had Her arms open, fingers spread, welcoming thousands of people into Her grip. He wonders if She was there for Tony, in the cold darkness of space shrouding their ship, or the companion he mentioned in his recordings. Or if they were all alone, brushed aside by Her in the quick and unexpected moments of their demise during the Blip. Alone in a metal shuttle, as they faced an end they had to have known was coming for them.
"He'll come back." The words come from his mouth more than Thor actually means to say them.
"And if he doesn't?" Erik asks, obviously not quite as sure.
"He will." Thor says it like there's no question, because there can't be. Because he isn't sure what he'll do if it is in question. "Rabbit is many things, but not a coward."
"So he'll come back." Bruce doesn't sound very convinced either, but that's okay. Thor is used to being the only one with faith in a questionable companion. "When he does, where do you go?"
"Korbin." It's the obvious first choice, though he has no idea what they'll find. "A planet in the Burning Galaxy."
Erik looks faintly amused, but the unspoken joke passes over Thor's head. "For what?"
"Their technology rivals that of Asgard." Thor informs them, nodding to himself. "Their people produce warriors."
"Produce?" The sharp ache in Bruce's voice turns to interest.
"You are as perceptive as always." It's good to hear the change in his tone, and Thor feels his shoulders relax with it. "Their champion of choice is gifted with power brought by science."
"They're enhanced, then." A hum.
"Under the circumstances," Erik starts, sounding less enthused than the two of them. "Should you be expecting a warm welcome?"
"The Imperial Leader and their people owe Asgard a great debt." Thor figures he simply won't mention to the people of Korbin that there isn't much left of Asgard. "Their troubles won't have made them kind, but they will not turn us away."
"You're positive?"
Thor thinks it over for a moment, and gives a nonchalant shrug. "No."
"Didn't you just say -"
"I did." The blonde man tries very hard to ignore the doubt being aimed his way. "We cannot be entirely sure of anything, now. There's no telling what has reached them since my throneworld fell, or in the wake of Thanos."
"They were under the protection of Asgard?" Erik frowns.
"By order of Odin."
"And you don't think they'll be..." The man trails off, giving him a hard look.
"A little upset?" Bruce gives a laugh that falls flat. "I can't see why they wouldn't be."
Thor is willing to give them that. The people of Korbin, what's left of them, aren't going to be necessarily happy to see him at first. In their eyes, Asgard failed them. Odin failed them. He failed them. And they aren't exactly wrong for thinking it. He won't blame them for their upset. Their failure - his failure - was led up to by a series of mistakes and bad decisions. The people of Korbin, and all the others who fell without a chance to prevent it, want someone to blame. They deserve that much.
It's not Odin, who was unknowingly exiled and sent to live out the last of his days on Earth, despite all of the missteps he made and all of the lies he built their legacy around. It's not Asgard or it's people, who devoted themselves and fought for their home and their leader only to meet a bitter end. It's not the Avengers, who made their mistakes and live with them each day It isn't Hela, who opened the doors of destruction in what once was her home too. It's not even Loki, even though his contribution to their downfall is notable and matched only by his efforts to reverse the damage he helped caused.
If there's anyone left to blame, it's him.
It's Thor, who followed his father without questioning the inconsistencies and never thought he would need to know what came before. It's Thor, who went to search for the Infinity Stones and never made it quite that far. Thor, who wasn't even there to witness and fight with his people and try for them or die for them the way a king should have. Who never knew about Hela, who never knew what he should have been preparing for. Who let Loki run and run until he had exhausted all of them and lapped them twice. Him who should have been better equipped than any of them to see this, to recognize Thanos, to change something in fate itself.
This is a fact that he came to accept some time ago, while facing a star. While some of them are still juggling with their grief and regrets, chasing after relief, Thor has moved well past that. It likely helps that he's already mourned more people than anyone should, had already lost so much before the Blip, had already seen what he could have done but didn't.
So no, Thor won't - can't - blame them for seeing the fault as his. He'll take their anger and their grief, carry them on his shoulders with the same weight his cape holds of his father, because he should. Because it's his just as much as it is their own. No one should have to bare that alone.
"It seems counterproductive to walk into another conflict." The speaker crackles with the words, a reminder that there is still a conversation going on around him. "Like we're asking for trouble."
"I'm not sure we aren't." Erik's counter is smooth and smart. "Going out there, asking for things from people who have nothing left to give."
"We're going to draw a lot of attention." Bruce's discomfort is palpable. "Earth has never done or seen anything on this scale. No one else has seen anything like this from us."
"It's certainly going to be setting a few records." The blue eyed man returns easily. "And in a time where people are going to be especially vigilant."
"So we have to work fast."
The doctor nods, aiming a sharp look at the phone. "Or risk someone trying to get a closer look."
Bruce tries for neutral but comes across nervous. "We'll look like we're preparing for a war."
"We should be." Thor's remark seems to get their attention, because both of the mortal men go quiet. "I have no doubt we'll find much the same, regardless of where we go."
"The question is: are they preparing for us."
Jakarta, Indonesia
2020
Jakarta is a beautiful city, especially at night. The staggered buildings wink at her with neon lights, masses of light blue occasionally interrupted by pale reds and deep yellows. The city seems to stretch on forever, an endless cycle of roadways and buildings stretching toward the horizon. From this high up the streetlights are angled behind the trees, giving the leaves an ethereal green glow. It makes the whole park look like an exaggeratedly large fairy ring placed snugly between the shelves of the city.
It's a real shame Shuri isn't here to enjoy the view and take in the sights, or get a chance to explore a city she never thought she would visit in her lifetime. She doesn't even have a phone to snap a single photo with. It's disappointing, and leaves her furrowing her brows and staring out across the maze of a city. She tries to memorize it, to dedicate the image to her memory just in case she doesn't get a chance to return here later, brown eyes sharp with her focus. She maps out the alleyways and the single common path through the park, winds her gaze through main roads and side streets that don't look fit for one car much less two.
There's no question that it's not enough, that this particular view will never be the same again. Shuri is unfortunately aware, though, that she should actually be getting down to business. Spending another hour up here, inhaling the city, isn't going to help anyone.
"Your window of opportunity is closing." The interruption comes through her wireless communications clear and gentle.
"I know." Shuri looks out at the lights of the city one last time, wistful, then reaches up to tap a nail against the necklace of teeth that hangs over her collarbones. It signals her suit to raise her helmet, and she brings a hand up to make sure her long braid stays out of it. "I'm going right now, okay? See?"
"Yes, I see." Vision sounds distinctly amused, but there's a trace of something cold in his tone that she can't place.
There's a few seconds of silence where Shuri waits to see if he's going to reveal what it is freely. He doesn't, which is fine, but it nags at her nonetheless. Bites at the back of her neck and wiggles around in her thoughts petulantly. Not knowing something - anything, really, no matter how unimportant - tugs at her nerves, teasing her into irritation. It's not that she doesn't have boundaries - which she doesn't - or can't understand when something just isn't meant to be said or known.
The idea of not knowing just bothers her. The lack of security that comes with being in the dark puts discomfort in the pit of her chest. Not being informed makes her feel unprepared, unsure. Shuri just wants to know things - needs to know things. It's a relentless tug and impulse that she hasn't been able to shake since she started talking and walking on her own and had the capacity to question anything and everything.
"I was hoping to catch you in the beginning stages of your mission." Waiting pays off, as Vision finally relieves the silence through the headset. "Agent Danvers returned briefly."
"You mean Carol." Shuri corrects absently, knocking her wristbands together and watching her gauntlets grow into place. A perfect fit, of course. "You know you don't have to be so formal literally all the time."
"It's a matter of preference." Comes the easy excuse.
"Oh come on," she scoffs as she steps across the edge of the rooftop to the left side of the building. "What do I have to do to get you out of the 'Meeting Mode' you default to?"
"Please," Vision sounds like he would be rolling his eyes, if he had eyes anymore. "I assure you I'm quite content with my manner of speaking, Shuri."
The woman in question wrinkles her nose. It had taken months to convince him he could call her Shuri and that, yes, it would be a weight off of her shoulders if he did. Since then she's been trying, and failing spectacularly, to get him to use other nicknames. For herself, of course, but also everyone else. When she's successful - and she is totally sure she will be, one of these days - it'll be worth all of the whining to see the look on Bruce's face when Vision calls him Green Machine. Steve's expression is likely to be even better, if she can get their disembodied pal to call him Baby Blues.
"You'll change your mind." Shuri tells him simply. "And when you do, I'll be your guide into a better vernacular."
Vis doesn't entertain her with a rebuttal, but she can tell she's getting to him. She's fairly sure she is, at least. "When that day comes I'll welcome your teachings." He tells her dryly. "Unfortunately, my reasons for calling weren't geared toward a vocabulary lesson."
"Really? I'm shocked."
Settled on the edge of the rooftop, Shuri can see... Well, she isn't sure what she's seeing honestly. The warehouse beside her perch is lower down and half of the roof is accented by long, thin windows. They're coated with dust and grime, but she can make out a large brown box in the center of the open room. Across from it is a set of stairs, likely leading to a small office. The appearance of the building is deceiving, worn and seemingly forgotten, the storage building looks like it hasn't been in use for some number of years.
This is the exact opposite of true, though. Shuri knows because of tapped telephone lines and uncovered packaging and delivery slips with out of service phone numbers and names that belong to people lost in the Blip. Each one was presented and made out like a sizeable shipment of construction supplies, building materials and tools all mixed together.
It's worth noting that there are no supplies or tools in sight. Just the big, dark, rectangular box waiting for something, someone, though she isn't sure who. All of their digging and explorations have ended with false identities and deceased persons, wild goose hunts with no verifiable end. What Shuri does know is that who ever is supposed to be expecting the mystery box is going to be incredibly disappointed.
Shuri is almost positive that Rand is coming to intercept the delivery before it moves past this warehouse. Almost positive. Chasing after Danny has been very much like trying to catch a cat. The mere existence of the cat - which is to say, Danny Rand - has come into question multiple times. There was no way to confirm the Snap spared him, and his whereabouts before and after are made up of rumors and ghost stories.
"I would advise using caution, when you drop in." Vision warns her slowly, sounding tense. "I can't get a solid reading on anything past the glass, there's no guarantee this isn't a set-up."
"Got it." Shuri nods, and wonders if he can tell she's making use of the gesture. Probably. It seems reasonable. "So, Carol was back and she didn't even say 'hello?'"
"There were more pressing matters than pleasantries." The words sound grim. "The parts she obtained allowed us to fix a secure connection with the Benatar."
Hesitant, the young woman takes a long breath. "I thought that would be good news." Shuri comments idly, and halts herself when she catches movement at the back of the building. "You see that?"
"Of course." Confirms Vision. "It's a man."
"Just a man?"
"I believe that is what I said." Vision's sass has improved over the past two years, she's oddly proud. "Late twenties to mid thirties, approximately six feet tall, white, blonde -"
"I'm going in." Shuri says quickly.
"Hold on, I believe we just discussed -" He gives up on reprimanding her when she stands up and takes a few calculated steps back. "You're going to jump through the window."
"It's called making an entrance." Shuri laughs lightly.
The wind slides around her when she propels herself forward, lithe muscles carrying her to the edge of the building in seconds. Her toes meet the edge and she pushes off with the added help of the Booster Boots. Then, for a moment, she's weightless. It's no more than a few beats of suspension, a distortion of reality around her as her hair swims through the air and the wind carries her limbs effortlessly, but it's exhilarating. These little things, these few seconds, make the rest of everything worth it.
"I'm getting frequent jumps in energy readings." Vision's input is a little late, considering she's already sailing through the air, but she appreciates it. "Jump."
The word is so quick that Shuri's brain, still caught in the rush of soaring between the buildings, struggles to keep pace. "What?"
Underneath the thick soles of the reinforced boots, the dirty window gives a drawn out 'cr-a-ck!' followed by a dull 'whoosh' as she announces her arrival, personified precipitation with the shattering glass as the shock of thunder. Shuri honestly, seriously, hadn't thought it would be that loud. It's something she makes note of, reminds herself not to be so dramatic next time for the thrill of it.
Shuri's feet hit the floor, not even for a fraction of a second, and he's in her ear again. Fast, insistent, Vision repeats himself: "Jump."
Without hesitation, the russet skinned woman follows his instructions. The boosters in her heels send her straight up, a little higher than she had intended so maybe she should have had a couple more test runs. Sparing a glance down Shuri gets a good view of the black chest, made of shiny black metal with three clasps on the right side, as it zooms right under her at an unbelievable speed. The side facing the direction it came from is sporting a large dent, letting off smoke. Had she wasted time thinking about it, she's sure it would have been sent right into her chest. Ouch.
This time when her feet touch the floor, Shuri spins on the balls of her feet to directly face her opponent. Would-be opponent, more accurately. The sight of Danny Rand - looking a little dirty homeless chic with a side of bad hygiene but Danny Rand nonetheless - is a bit of a relief. For a second, Shuri had started to worry that maybe she had made a mistake. It's been a while, but she doesn't need to do a once-over to be entirely positive it's him, alive and resembling a Flintstones character. This, though? This she can work with.
"Daniel -" Shuri starts cheerfully, only to be rudely interrupted by a voice in her ear.
"Duck." Instinct drives her to bend her knees and drop, bracing her hands on the floor in a wide stance. "Go left." Shuri obeys, rolls, feels something hot like magma dance by the inside of her elbow. She glances down and blanches at the singed material on her arm. "Behind you."
Pushing off her surprise, the brunette drives the toe of her shoe into the ground and takes off. In her peripheral she can see a streak of gold curving through the air. It hits a pillar as she slides by the block of concrete. The bullet - she didn't get a good look, but it's a safe bet - slides into the grey pillar like it's nothing. There's a harsh grinding noise as it embeds itself deep, at least halfway through if the cracks emerging from the corner are any indication. Whatever is crackling inside of the gunfire, it's not going to feel good if she hits it head on.
Craning her neck, Shuri gets a look at the man from around the side of the pillar. He's materialized two guns, each currently aimed at the floor, and his expression is too light for someone launching a preemptive strike. "Nobody calls me that, you know."
"I know!" She can't help her breathless laugh as she pulls back behind her cover, pressing her shoulders against it as she looks around. Two doors roughly the same distance either way, metal stairs a few feet behind her and to the side. All of it is entirely open, which poses a problem. Finally, Shuri admits: "I thought it would be funny."
"Bad call." Danny remarks casually. His sneakers scuff against the hard floor as he walks, unconcerned, away from her.
Sneaking a look to be sure, Shuri is faintly offended to find he has, in fact, turned his back to her. "What happened to your sense of humor, Danny?"
"He's going for the container." Vision puts in, and she jumps a little. It's easy to forget he's there, sometimes, and that she's the only one hearing him. "Take the stairs."
"The stairs?" Shuri hisses softly. "They're out of the way."
"They are an obstacle."
Vis is right, but she's not really pumped on the potential of getting shot by... Whatever it is Danny sent her way last time. Shuri closes her eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and looks out at her destination. The blocks stairs are close to the wall, a steep set of dark metal steps that meet closely with a railing. On the other side, she can hear a few light metallic noises. The latches on the box, she decides. It's now or never.
Running faster than she ever has, including when she ran from T'Challa after he found her staining all of his clothes with neon green, Shuri abandons her cover. Long strides bring her beside the steps, and she doesn't risk a look over her shoulder. Vision, she trusts, has her back still.
Shuri bypasses the first step and brings her left foot down hard to launch herself upward. Her limbs act on their own, muscles reacting faster than her brain can consciously decide to shift. Her right leg hits the wall and she bends her knee, twists, pushes off again. The momentum sends her up again, her left foot kicks out and plants itself on the side of the stairs, and then her right catches her on the wall again.
It happens so fast that Shuri doesn't even have time to be proud of her maneuvering. She pushes off of the wall, then the side of the stairs, and the wall one last time. Her right hand catches on the middle line of the balcony's railing, and her left arm raises in turn. The vibranium gauntlet hums around her fingers, responding to her silent demand, and a sharp blast of faded fuchsia flies from her fist.
The sonic energy blast diverts Danny's attention, gives her enough time to swing her weight and throw herself over the railing. Her landing is less than graceful, knees clanging against the metal, hands flat on the ground to catch her. Still, though, badass. T'Challa would be proud of her, using a variation of the moves he taught her to evade and get a good shot off.
"My sense of humor?" Danny must have recovered, because he's calling up to her with an amused lilt to his words. "Didn't you just shoot me?"
"Nonlethal." Is the quick rationalization from Shuri. "Also, you know, you totally took the first shot." Her newest frenemy hums a response that she doesn't catch. "Are you ready to talk now?"
The older man scoffs, a nasty and distrustful noise. "To the Hand?"
Shuri's brain promptly turns off. She has to bite her tongue to try to contain a laugh, but a childish snort makes it out. It's a landslide from there, where Shuri stifles giggles into her fist. It's so stupid and she shouldn't laugh, but some adolescent sense of humor clings to her armpits and she can't not laugh at what he just said.
"What?" Danny sounds a little put out, she hears his footsteps stop. "What did I say?"
"Talk -" Shuri makes a ugly noise in her throat, half a cough and half a laugh. "You don't want to talk to the hand?"
It must click at her words, because the man sighs long and hard. "No." Danny whines like a petulant child, as much of an adult as he was when they met. Then he tries to change the subject. "You cornered yourself."
Once her laughs die down she gives an out of breath response. "I like having the higher ground." Shuri rolls until she hits the wall away from the balcony and keeps low as she inches along the wall. "I'm not here for a fight."
"Somehow, you don't have me fully convinced."
"I'm not with the Hand." Shuri tries instead, and takes his silence as an invitation to keep going. "Almost exactly the opposite of that, in fact."
"The Order of the Crane Mother?" Danny sounds borderline hopeful.
Honestly, she doesn't actually know what that is. "Uh..." It didn't come up in any digging or discussion, and this doesn't sound like the kind of thing she can bullshit her way through blindly. "Not quite?"
"You were off to a good start."
Shuri keeps moving as she poses her question in return. "What do you have in the box, Danny? A make-up gift, a late birthday present?"
"Ah," it's hard to tell, but she thinks Danny sounds embarrassed. "Honest truth?"
"Well I mean, we're already here."
"An old friend."
Oh. That's gross. Shuri, again, wonders if this was a mistake. Maybe the Snap, and whatever else happened to Danny Rand, sent him over the deep end. Maybe he has really lost it, out in Indonesia hoarding a corpse - potentially multiple corpses, realistically. The grimace on her face must be audible, because the man below starts up with an excuse when the silence gets to be a little weird and too thoughtful.
"That sounds worse than it is." Danny misses the mark on reassuring by many, many feet. "If you aren't here for Quan -"
"Quan?" Shuri asks, just a little horrified.
"Yeah, he - the guy -" There's a soft smacking noise, like maybe he's hitting his own forehead. "His name is Quan Yaozu."
"Was." She corrects him slowly, trying to convey her concern for his mental health.
"Sort of." The offhanded response tells her nothing. "Orson, then?"
"Not ringing any bells." Shuri tells him totally honest.
As truthful as he words are, she can tell Danny isn't buying it. Fair, but inconvenient. "Realistically," Danny has an edge to his tone now. "You'll have to give me the truth eventually."
There's a snarky response on the tip of her tongue, but Shuri holds it and her breath for a moment when he moves. There's a distinct change in the sound of his steps. From the 'thwack!' of sneakers on cement to a 'shtck!' when the rubber soles meet the first metal step. Shuri has no desire to hurt him, really, but he's dangerous. Hell, everyone is dangerous now. There's no telling whose engines aren't firing, though.
"Vis." Shuri whispers shortly.
"Twelve steps to go." As always, the intuitive man (Shuri thinks that fits, even if he doesn't have a physical body) is already matching her stride. "Eight steps, weapons loaded."
Giving a nod to indicate she's heard him, her nimble fingers move to the cuffs of her gauntlets. She cranks the small dials on the inside of each of her wrists, enough to do more than knock him off of his feet. Hopefully. Shuri never quite got around to fully testing the limitations of her gauntlets after their last upgrade, a little busy running in circles. It'll work, though. Shuri knows because she made it, and she knows what she's doing, and hopefully that's enough.
"Five steps."
Twisting to sit upright, the younger woman firmly nails her feet on the ground to brace herself and sits as straight as possible, shoulders flat on the wall. Both hands raise to aim at the top of the thin staircase. The gauntlets hum and vibrate around her hands and wrists, leaving a buzzing in her bones, hinting at the amount of power building up in the vibranium encasing her digits. While she hasn't tested this fully, loading it up for so long for one shot, she's sure the kickback is going to leave a bit of an ache. So she tries to keep herself as stable as she can, using the wall and the bend of her knees for leverage.
"Two steps. Aim at a forty-five degree angle."
Shuri takes his advice, angling her arms just a little. A head of curly blonde hair and wide blue eyes pop up, followed by the rest of his person. She feels the tiniest bit bad when he registers what's about to go down, mouth opening to protest. Both of his guns are tilted downward, out of use, but they're just a little too far into this to back out now.
The sonic blasts slam out of her gauntlets with enough force to knock her arms back, and likely bruise her shoulders. If she weren't seated against the wall already she probably would have been shoved into it by her own weapon fire. The fuchsia energy blasts are definitely the largest she's ever produced, and maybe just a little more harsh than she had expected.
Identical fuchsia crescents fling themselves forward and start to collide, joining in the center like one enormous kick to the gonads. The combined fire lands right on target, nailing the center of Danny's chest. He goes concave with the force of it, snapped back hard enough that the old rusty rail goes flying off when he collides into it. And then he keeps going and, well, Shuri definitely feels a little bad.
A split second later, twin guns are firing off. Not toward her, but below. Right into the support for the balcony, already weakened in one spot as it is. Danny's back hits the far wall with a solid 'thwump!' that sounds painful. When the walkway topples underneath of her, supports fractured by his... gun magic, or whatever it is he has going on, Shuri does not feel even slightly bad anymore. In fact, she's sure he deserves the bruising he's going to wake up with.
There's nothing to grab to stop her fall, so Shuri rolls into it. The impact with the floor isn't pleasant, jarring her shoulder while he knee lands right on a chunk of the metal railing, dislodged in their ruckus. Yeah, she definitely doesn't feel bad anymore.
"Vitals indicate Mr. Rand is unconscious." Vision informs her pleasantly. "K.O."
"Bet." Shuri wheezes and moves to sit on her butt, resting for just a moment. Then she plants her hands on her knees and rises gingerly, thankful for every bit of tech and every minuscule reinforcement in the Black Panther suit. "Think there's really a guy in the box?"
This query makes Vision take a few beats to think it over. "It's certainly not improbable."
They're going to find out, absolutely. But first, Shuri has to deal with the Rand boy. He's just too far on the side of feisty to not restrain but, really, he's probably not going to be feeling fond of her when he wakes up either way. She knows she wouldn't, in any case.
Shuri takes careful, coordinated steps across the oval of rubble from the balcony, sparing a glance up to note that seventy-five percent of it remains standing. She wonders if that was purposeful, if he was able to place those shots that well that fast while being thrown across the room like a stuffed toddler's toy. Some amount of time ago, the idea would have been laughable. It wasn't realistic for someone to be that fast, that accurate, that controlled, under such hectic circumstances.
Standing there, looking between Danny Rand and the collapsed support and tilting metal staircase with nothing left to lean on, Shuri fends off the haze of shocked questions. Crouching beside his legs, she reaches out to gently move his limbs. Hands in his lap, wrists close together. Legs stretched out fully, one ankle crossed daintily over the other. Like he's reclined under a tall tree, taking advantage of the shade from the wooden arms and phalanges of leaves to indulge in a nap.
Taking her right hand she grabs one of the sharp, gleaming fuchsia spikes on her left wrist. It shudders to life in her hands, murmuring with electricity as it rests in her palm. Then she repeats the action on her opposite wrist, cradling one spike in each hand.
"One, two -" Shuri counts to herself, poising the spikes at the same height. One is over his ankles, the other over his wrists. "Three!"
The mature woman releases the pair of cones together, watches them drop like weights. Sharp lines of bright electric currents snap out from the bottoms and the points, extending quickly. The tendrils wrap around his ankles and wrists and then meet in the middle, a firm and unbreakable kind of cuff. Hopefully unbreakable. The shock cuffs are a prototype, and she probably shouldn't risk using them, but something tells her regular restraints won't hold up well.
"He's stable." Vision tells her when she spends a little too long crouched there, peering at him. "With the amount of pure energy radiating off of him, I'd say he'll be awake in only a number of minutes."
Shuri doesn't know what happened to Danny Rand, or why he's leaking energy like battery acid, but she damn sure wants to know. The curiosity is going to kill her, if they don't get past this scuffle and exchange stories and juicy details.
That, like Danny Rand himself, is a problem for a little later. Right now, there's another mystery afoot. The large, newly dented black box is parked away from her, displaced by the blonde man punching it solidly earlier. They are most certainly, right this moment, going to find out if there is an actual body in there. If there is, she'll have to remind herself to ask him in the future why the body is being stored so unconventionally. Room temperate, oversized metal box with locks on it that looks suspiciously thick as if it's been reinforced.
Leaving the unconscious man can't do him any harm than she already has, so she stands and carefully steps over his knees. She kicks a few loose chunks of rock aside as she goes, clearing the path for when she inevitably had to carry a grown man out of the dingy warehouse.
Coming to a stop, Shuri rests her land hand on the top of the box. The suit itself is temperature resistance and adjusts to assist in continued survival, and the compendium that comes to life in the display of her goggles tells her that the box is legitimately freezing inside. Only two of the locks are still in place on the side, each laced with ice in the nooks and crannies. The third is on the floor near her feet. The scorched marks on it imply that Danny took this one off.
All it takes are two swift hits to each lock with her heavy gauntlets and the metal cracks, splinters, and the locks meet their match on the floor one at a time.
"You leapt through the ceiling earlier," Vision says, as if she could forget a thing she did not even thirty minutes ago.
"Yes?" Shuri leads the conversation as she curls her fingers over the lid on the box, jiggling it to loosen the hinges on the opposite that have gone stiff and unrelenting with the cold.
"I opened this line of communication with a purpose." Despite his complaint, he doesn't sound very upset. A little distant, perhaps. "You disarmed me with your display."
"I'm good at that." The young woman jeers, but pulls back when he doesn't supply her with the faint amusement he typically does. "What's going on, Vis?"
Vision's words are heavy, his tone flatter than she's ever heard him. "The Benatar is the subject of a retrieval mission, currently in the hands of Agent Danvers."
"Really?" Shuri feels the grin pull at her cheeks, the elated lightness of positivity. "Who is she taking?" She's going to be a little jealous, but she knows they likely won't send her out for something that grand yet. "Don't worry, I know I'm not on the list."
Stalling like an old mid-size beater, Vision stays quiet. "The retrieval of the craft is a solo operation."
It takes a moment for that to fully filter through her ears and process in her brain. Solo. Single. One person. Retrieval and not search and rescue. The men and women who manned that ship were Rocket's family, strangers to her known only in witty remarks and short anecdotes. Still, her chest aches with the loss. She mourns for people she never knew, will never know. The way Rocket speaks of them, she thinks they deserve that.
"Right." Is all Shuri says when her voice returns to her and her hands yank upward on the lid to the container. It mocks her frustration with a sharp noise from the hinges. "How long do you think?"
"Undetermined." Vision's honesty puts a bit of calm back in the heavy thud of her hear in her chest. "That was not the entirety of our... discovery."
A few seconds pass, then a few more, and Shuri realizes she's going to have to press to touch him back down in reality and their conversation. "What are you not telling me?"
"We found Tony."
The statement catches her of guard entirely, and her arms give a heavy upward surge that sends the lid of the container into motion, rocking back until it's nearly upright. It stays at that angle, the hinges caught on themselves or ice, she doesn't care which one. Shuri stares unblinking, unseeing, at the contents of the black metal trap. A man stares back at her, eyes nothing more than pits of void, unseeing. Over the top half of his head a mask is situated, solid yellow with a green that's so dark it could pass for black bordering the holes for the eyes. It wraps around sort of like a bandana, with two tails laid across his breastbone.
"Hi, Quan." Shuri doesn't have much interest in corpses, or the works, but she can't bring herself to look away. "Who else knows?"
"Doctor Banner is delivering the news individually as we chat here." Vision does a decent job of reading her mind, answering her next question before she even has to voice it. "The decision was made to not interfere with your interception of Mr. Rand." That makes sense, which means him coming to tell her doesn't make sense. "In light of recent events, there have been discussions of dispatching a double aboard the ship, while Captain Carol ensures that is... taken care of."
"That sort of," Shuri stumbles verbally, rolling her lip between her teeth as she searches for the right word. "Sucks."
It's not the most eloquent and/or poetic statement she's ever given, but it certainly encompasses the general happenings around her right now. What else is there to say, really? Ask him to tell Rocket she sends her condolences, because that's worth just about zip nowadays. Admit that at least now Tony isn't going to have to come home and find Pepper isn't here, and that Rhodes has gone AWOL? Apologize to all of them, because if they could have figured it out sooner or been smarter or better equipped things could be different, in another timeline, another universe adjacent to theirs in the vast void of the multiverse.
"Indeed." It would be impossible for people to question whether or not Vision is alive and real and experiencing genuine emotions, if they could hear the way his voice wavers with just the one word.
"Why did you call me?" It sounds rude and demanding, so Shuri tries to amend her words in a rush of air from her lungs. "I mean, instead of calling... One of the others. I didn't know - not the way -"
Vision, bless his very real soul, takes pity on her stammering and puts a metaphorical hand over her mouth. "There is no other person I can conjure in my thoughts who would be as fitting as you are to finish the P.D.S. and successfully deploy it in its entirety."
"You're joking." Shuri knows she's a genius, okay, that's not up for debate. There's no chance she is going to pretend to be cocky enough to think that she's the one who should take care of Tony's final and largest project. "Rocket is clearly more knowledgeable on what to expect from other planets, potential threats and attacks, defensive systems on other planets -"
"We are all well aware of Rocket's qualifications." Vision assures her bluntly. "I have taken all of that into consideration and my endorsement has not faltered."
This is a lot. There is a lot going on right now. Two dead guys, clearly at different stages between 'regular dead' and 'incredibly dead.' A dead ship and, by association it is safe to assume, crew. Space exploration and history making achievements. Shuri reaches up to tap the right spot to bring her mask down, giving her much more freedom to pull cool air into her lungs. In through her nose, out through her mouth. Each inhale through her nose is relieving, but on the fifth breath she's taken by the fact that something here is not quite right.
Aside from all of the death, and potential responsibilities, and who would watch over Wakanda, something else isn't right.
Shuri leans forward and takes a slow, deep breath through her nose. Clean, crisp air like the first night of snow welcoming the winter. No stench of decay, or rot eating away at her nostrils as it invades her senses. No saliva filling her mouth to warn her that, yeah, she might vomit from the gnarly combination of smells. There's just nothing in the air. It makes no sense, because the man is very much dead. She's no expert in the preservation of dead creatures or people, but something strikes her as unnatural here. The skin on his face is discolored like a nicotine stained cigarette butt, stretched so think it looks like it could snap, but hard and shining where it catches the light like bones.
Leaning closer to satisfy her sudden need to know what happened here, to get a better look, reveals a layer of something pasted across his lips. It's lighter than his morphed skin and seals his mouth shut, lips and teeth hidden behind the dried mystery substance. A thick robe is tied around his top half, colors matching his headpiece, paired with dark pants. He has no shoes, and his feet are so covered in dirt she can't tell if there's skin and nails left or if he's been makeshift mummified.
Suspicion crosses her features as she inspects his clothing, nose almost touching the fabric as she looks at the threading and quality and tries to figure out how it is so clean and bright, as new as the day it was stitched and displayed. Pristine. Preserved better than poor Quan himself, who clearly was the victim of some sort of fashion related crime. Shuri still can't wrap her head around the lack of smell. There's just nothing in the air, when she's sure there should be.
"Your silence is not giving me the confidence to believe you're listening." Vision drones in her ear and she's only fifty percent sure he didn't actually say anything before that.
"I know you're seeing this," Shuri blinks and pulls away from the deceased man. "But something is seriously not right with our new friend Quan..." His last name escapes her, and she purses her lips as she tries to think back to what the blonde man had told her.
Behind her, slumped against the wall, Danny is returning to coherency. "Yaozu." Blue eyes squint at her back through disheveled blonde hair as he supplies the last name for her.
"I'll open comm's again in three hours." Shuri directs this at Vision. "I gotta split -"
"I will give you three hours starting the moment you disconnect." Vision clearly isn't pleased with her sudden avoidance, even if she really does have to handle this. "Lack of contact by then with result in immediate withdr -"
Without a single ounce of regret, Shuri pulls the comm from her ear and holds the switch to disconnect it. She'll have answers for him later, and then he'll get over it. Or he'll be very dramatically petty and inconvenience her in ways only a constantly connected being can. The clear, flexible device finds its home in a small pouch slouched across her hip. Turning slowly, she faces the quieted man. His eyes are still pulled down, trying to shake off the disorientation from waking up after taking a solid hit.
The haze fades from his eyes face as his gaze drifts behind her shoulder to the opened... Well, it's not a routine coffin but it's carrying a body so the term will have to be flexible here. The blue eyes looking her way go from unfocused to hard enough they could stand up to diamonds. It's not an angry look, but determined. Shuri tries to track the minute changes in his controlled features.
Danny is looking at her clearly now, confusion sparking in his pupils. Does he recognize her? Can he place her face? He looks the same as he did years ago, aside from the facial hair he's been growing out. Shuri probably doesn't, she realizes. She's grown a lot since then, stepping into her rushed shift from a young lady to a young woman. Her silhouette is no longer similar to a piece of toast, flat lines grown to gentle dips and curves accented by sharp muscles. The white makeup in steady lines down her chin and cheeks, matched by neat circles drawn with the same face paint, can't be doing much to help her case either.
"You didn't leave." The blonde beats her to speaking, looking down at the light wrapped around his limbs inquisitively.
"I told you," Shuri puts on the most serious, stony look she can. It's something she's practiced many times, but can never hold long enough to be effective. "I didn't come here for a fight."
"Or Quan." Danny clarifies, though he doesn't look even marginally convinced.
"I didn't even know Quan was going to be at the shindig. If I had, I would have brought a friend." Shuri looks back at the body just in case, reassuring herself that he is deceased and immobile, then shifts her dark eyes back to the living man. "Are you planning to divulge why, exactly, your traveling companion is someone who lacks the need to breath or consume anything?"
"I prefer my partners be low maintenance." The brush off is smooth, practiced. "I've sort'a got a lot going on right now, if you hadn't noticed. Pretty important guy, getting ambushed. So, it's hard to commit and dedicate yourself to someone you have to feed throughout your work day."
This is good. The light smile traced onto his lips is promising."You have not been ambushed." Shuri tacks on a chuckle at the beginning of her words, an action that thickens her accent as her words move from her brain to her tongue to her lips. "I do not recall making the original approach and starting anything."
"You busted through a glass ceiling." Danny reminds her, borderline chastising. "Was I supposed to take that as a friendly greeting?"
Shuri frowns to herself, looking down at him apologetically "Are we still being honest?"
Mimicking her words earlier, the blonde man bobs his torso in a shrug. "We're already here."
"I didn't think it through."
"Just thought it would look badass?" He huffs a laugh at the faint embarrassment warming her cheeks. Danny leans forward conspiratorially, a boyish twinkle in his eyes like she doesn't have him in restraints, and lowers his voice. "It looked really badass."
Crossing her eyes, she rolls her eyes and fails to ward off the smile inching over her expression. "Well isn't that a relief."
"I wish I'd thought of that." Danny tells her, wagging one of his fingers a little. "I wasn't expecting it."
"So we're even." Shuri informs him briskly.
"Even?"
She nods and hooks a thumb toward the man among them who doesn't speak. "I wasn't expecting him, you weren't expecting me. We're even."
Danny nods, shifts his shoulders as he regards her. "You have my name already."
"I do."
Shuri feels her lips quirk further upward. Watching him squirm on the ground, unable to stand due to the way his wrists and ankles are connected by the steady electric pulse, shouldn't be funny. But Danny is a large man, at least six feet tall, so the sight of him bent inward shuffling his feet in centimeter increments and minutely wiggling his shoulders is definitely funny. If he's uncomfortable he doesn't complain. He just waits expectantly for her name, and she lets him squirm just little longer as a sort of revenge for him forgetting her entirely.
"What is this?" Danny's question has her crouching down for less problematic access. He jiggles his hands in a stiff gesture to his restraints, head cocked to the side as he tries to get a better look."Or, these, I should say?"
"Restraints." Shuri cheekily tells him, but she keeps going with the real answer before he can protest." The cones power, generate, and stabilize two fields; one magnetic, the other electric. One keeps you in place, the other discourages meddling with them or trying to slip them."
One gauntlet clad hand reaches for the cone at Danny's wrists. As soon as her covered hand breaks between one of the electric currents, disrupting them, it causes a disconnect in the flow of power and the magnetic field with it. Shuri plucks the cone closest to her hand out of the air using the tips of her fingers. Her other hand whips out to catch the second cone before it clatters to the floor, only to find it doesn't land in her hand like it should. Blinking in her confusion, Shuri leans back to look for the disappearing spike, only to have it appear in front of her nose in a pink hued blur. It hangs from Danny's fingertips where he grasps the point, less than an inch from her nose, wavering side to side.
"Thank you." She says, staying in her carefully balanced crouch on the balls of her feet. Danny responds with some pleasantry or another as she snaps the fuchsia spikes back into place one at a time. "This pair is the prototype." Shuri gives him the insider info, even if he doesn't need it. "Right now it takes two, minimum, to maintain. I need to regulate, balance them out, duplicate the final product to replace the rest."
While only the one pair of spikes currently does anything, she plans on trying to make each one match the two that are currently kind of potentially home Shuri runs the pads of her fingers over the spikes that only work as decoration for now, bounces on her heels to give herself enough momentum to not use the wall to help her stand. Her thick boots keep her sturdy despite her knees protesting from her time having dropped it low. Danny's legs probably aren't faring much better, so she shoves a hand out toward him and smiles He looks suspicious of her gauntlet, despite Shuri double-checking that the claws are retracted and the spikes are set firmly.
After a few bland moments Danny gets over the lingering wariness. The palm of his hand claps against her own as he accepts her nonverbal offering, and she gives a sharp pull that has him on his feet quickly. The hint of surprise on his face at her strength makes her laugh, and he joins in briefly. Shuri has to admit surprising people with her physical strength brings her a good deal of amusement. Not to say that SHE was weak, before taking on the dark mantle of the Black Panther, the same helm her brother and her father before him did.
At first they had thought Erik Killmonger destroyed all of the Heart Shaped Herb, burned the plants to ash in their dirt home. Shuri would have taken on the title with or without the added perks from the native Wakandan plant. She'll still be the first to admit that it made her feel ten steps ahead of her usual stride, full of energy and air in her lungs, brain firing up in doubletime. She's gotten used to the extra of everything by now, but there are times where she still mis-estimates her limits. Goes too far or stops just short.
Danny's giving her a smile again, releasing her hand. "Thank you."
"Shuri." She tells him, extremely belatedly.
"What?" Wide blue eyes meet her own amused set. Danny seems to get it, now, to connect the dots between the young girl he had met years ago and the growing woman caught up with him now. "Come again?"
"Shuri." The girl in question repeats. The next words feel foreign, but right, on her tongue. "Queen of Wakanda"