"High noon" still has a resonating historical significance not lost on the people of New Amsterdam. Old cowboy movies, complete with John Wayne standing in a dusty, old street are imprinted upon people's memories, helping them recall a simpler past where grudges could be settled with guns. By 2511, these movies have been remade countless times over with different set pieces, but nostalgia continues to be an ever-present factor. It's not nostalgia that drives the UNA soldiers and Morningstar agents into position during this hour, but the time itself serves as a reminder. A call to a different time and a different past.
Outside, the sun burns bright, but people sleep soundly, shades drawn securely over their windows to create a false darkness. This is why the UNA strikes at noon: their targets will be vulnerable, comforted by the presence of daylight only a drawn shade away,
Across town, Morningstar's agents are preparing for their own strike. One of them makes a joke about the non hour. He's told to shut it. They have fifteen minutes. Is everyone ready? Their uniforms are black, tightly fitting. Each of them pulls their mask over their faces. Up ahead, there's a wall to scale.
Fifteen minutes and the plan goes into motion. Each agent knows the costs of this mission. Their last one ended up with numerous dead – lost – with no reward. UNA soldiers are far more threatening than the armed guards Morningstar faced on that day, but the reward is more sure. Worth the risk. They're secure in what they need to do.
Then it's time. Across the city, the UNA soldiers descend in perfect unison. Separate but thinking with one mind, one goal. Eliminate a festering problem, one that only stands to grow in a world haunted by chaos and trauma. It's their job to set things right. To restore order to a world that is currently without.
About forty five minutes in to the widespread assault, El sends out a message to everyone in the safehouse. This time, zeir communication is immediate, without the steady scrolling of text. Prepared in advance:
Hey, so. Emergency everyone. Come to the safehouse ASAP. Morningstar agents are in trouble, including a number who have helped you behind the scenes. Gaby will tell you more once you get there.
Once everyone shows up, crowded inside the part of the safehouse with the cots, Gaby gives everyone the rundown. The risk. The place where the rest of the agents are – this last bit of information being shared with an uneasy edge, arms crossed and body language giving off her discomfort. There are other people at risk, people who can't fight, who try to undermine the corporations with their regular lives, doing their best to keep the people they care about safe from their rebellious activity.
After she hands out the gear, she insists that it must be returned. But Gaby isn't stupid. Her desperation is inherent in her decisions, in the information that follows: exposing most of the inactive safehouses, giving away the addresses of the people likely in danger. Every Morningstar contact in New Amsterdam is likely at risk. So far, agents in other megacities aren't being targeted – yet. But this operation could be a model for future UNA efforts to eliminate the Morningstar threat.
The safehouses are spread across the city. Typically present in disheveled and forgotten pieces of real estate, there will be squatters and homeless alike taking up space as they move inside with the agents. This may prove a risk, and they may need to be bribed to go elsewhere, offered food and supplies. Other safehouses will be beneath bars, convenience stores, and through the storage room in less expensive apartment buildings – businesses and buildings owned by long-time Morningstar agents, kept ready in the case of an emergency like this one.
None of the safehouses will be prepared for living with the exception of cots and communal restrooms ready for use. This is a problem, but not a priority. She'll ask that everyone get out there and save the lives of the agents. Bring them and their families in safely – the rest can be figured out after that.
> RESTORING ORDER
Given the limitations over real estate and space even in a city as large as New Amsterdam, every citizen lives in an apartment building. The great majority of them were meant to be built quickly, similar layouts and designs behind them. A quick bit of research will get anyone the floor plans for these places – they're publicly available, ready for potential tenants. Most of these places are no dreamhouse, however: small and contained, they show the lifestyle of the typical Morningstar agent.
Any of the agents with a child – and there will only ever be one per agent, with the restrictions on childbirth – will have a roomier place, with better furnishing and more space for a child to run and grow up. These places will afford the family within better privacy, and many of them have drones and advanced robotics to help maintain the household, even caring for their child and keeping the door locked as the UNA soldiers move inside.
Where it's viable, the majority of UNA soldiers will move through the front door of these buildings. Never numbered over five, these soldiers will take the endless staircase up, erasing what little chances there are to run into anyone along the way. The knocks are just a cover to soothe the close-packed neighbors. Not all are fooled, and that's where the calls to the NAPD come in – though the UNA is prepared for this, too. Ready to assert their jurisdiction. Rather: their bosses are prepared. These soldiers have their orders and beyond that, only follow their orders with their formidable physicality and swift training.
But they are physically assertive: most of them are tall, seemingly without gender within thick black, metal armor. Despite their size and their robotic carapace, they are human underneath. Their extensive armor doesn't slow them down, instead seeming to propel them forward in a fight, letting them predict their enemies' moves as the mask they wear provides diagnostics and likely attacks on the fly. They carry extensive weapons and supplies, all to wear down any opponents. When they fight together, their actions are perfectly complementary.
They won't start a fight, but as soldiers, they are prepared. Though they enter through the front door, they intend to leave through a window, into a large flying vehicle outside, ready to hold the targets and bring them to a temporary dropsite. They don't expect any assailants, anyone to provide trouble – but they wouldn't be very well-trained, well designed if they couldn't expect or deal with the unexpected. They won't shoot unless someone forces the matter. Their training means their stature should be enough to put down most threats.
> A WELL-LAID TRAP
Confident and well-trained, the Morningstar agents have the plan ahead of them all mapped out. They know the shifts, the patrol patterns, especially at hours like this one. Fewer, right now, but they aren't nonexistent. Several strike teams spread out, ready to move to dismantle the UNA soldiers on site as needed. These are combat-trained agents, but five versus three UNA soldiers, or two, or even one still leads to odds where they don't win. Morningstar knows these soldiers intimately, has studied and discerned their few weaknesses. But these UNA soldiers are formidable opponents.
UNA Soldiers en route to Morningstar's goal will be handled with an eerie lack of follow-up. No reports of reinforcements incoming. The swift-moving Morningstar agents are too focused on their goal, which is close now, to worry about the implications. Besides, their information told them most agents would be away on training exercises. Reinforcements being delayed is no surprise.
Each agent has their own reason for being here, for believing that Morningstar needs to be more proactive, more forceful in fighting back. They aren't career soldiers, but people who thought that they could wield a gun and change a world that hides its problems under false promises and shimmering gloss. Many are impatient, frustrated: they were given a lead on weapons in June. They weren't mislead then, at least not intentionally, but what they got instead was a bus full of disoriented people. This cache is real, verified, and vulnerable, housed here temporarily before being moved for some unknown operation.
Once the Morningstar agents are all inside, the concealed UNA soldiers left at the base line up in formation. Perfectly tailored for the fight ahead, they move onto the site. Any agents on lookout duty will see the UNA moving in, ready to lay waste to anyone in there. This is a trap, they message frantically. The very real weapons inside are meant to mock with false hope.
The UNA aren't worried about Morningstar making off with their toys. After all, this is just as planned.
> INTERLUDE
Numerous officers pass by the holding cells in the NAPD's twelfth precinct, talking softly about what can they even do, muttering to themselves. Others pop a squat nearby and call it a well-earned day off. Let those soldiers take care of whatever mess they're cleaning up. That's not their job.
It's around this time that a third, unidentified group, takes advantage of the chaos. Well-dressed despite what is a late hours right now, they head into the precinct to take care of a dangling loose end. They show credentials that link them to New Beijing's governing body and personal security, they claim the men temporarily known as Tak and Alexei. As they're brought out of their cells, they're injected with the same compulsory drug as always, leaving them veritable walking zombies at first, leaving them unable to speak or act as they're given orders that tell them to do otherwise.
The records of these men will disappear with this action, the two of them swept away into the back of an expensive four-door sedan. The whole incident erased. Two somehow anonymous men didn't kill semi-innocent bystanders during the festival. As long as the records can be trusted, that was a fantasy. A whimsy.
Morningstar cameras will see this sedan stop near the current safehouse, near the typical entrance, and order Hei and Jake out. "Stay here. Sit down. Don't do or say anything until someone comes to retrieve you. It'll be a bit – they're tied up right now."
The man in the passenger seat in the front rolls down his window, leaning forward on his arm. His face is concealed, utilizing technology that's not the same but not dissimilar to what Morningstar has at their disposal. "Try not to do anything else too stupid, will you? The cops are gonna have a bug up their asses about you idiots."
And then the sedan rolls away, lifting up and passing through the city. Morningstar cameras will spot a specific – or perhaps the more apt word is "suspicious" – lack of license plate.
> MEDI-UNITS
Each of the safehouses were designed for the worst case scenario. There is a medi-unit in all of the safehouses, a large and complex machine that can heal most ills, but given the expensive nature of their design and the risk of using them, they're not used lightly.
The medi-units are reserved for the direst of needs. come into play. Dependent on a person's time of death to bring them back to the living, they need the exact time so that someone can clock it in and prepare the restoration process correctly. There are many risks in lacking that information – someone may come back damaged, unhealed, hurt in some way. They may not live for long. Assuming that a body is brought in with a time of death, they'll be directed to a safehouse with a free unit.
The person is kept in a medically induced coma while the machine repairs their body. What dreams someone experiences will be at the end point – which can be between 48 and 60 hours – as they slowly surface, starting to return to the world of the living. As they surface, their mind will be encumbered by images of bright blue lights glowing, swirling, communicating – but language seems thoroughly out of reach.
Once the medi-unit opens, the person inside will be thirsty. Desperate for water. But there will be no other signs of the wear and tear on their bodies.
> FINAL OOC NOTES
Please refer to the OOC EVENT POST for this event for all OOC info, including suggestions for directions on how to engage with the event and the questions thread for any questions regarding this event. The outcome for this event will depend upon character plans and actions developed in both this OOC post, and any additional plots brought to the moderators. Please feel free to submit any game-changing plans to us under the questions thread – but we will be reading all comments on the post!
The Operation will continue until September 11, IC time. An aftermath wrap up post will be made on January 26 which will detail the resolution and fallout of the event.
As a reminder, there is one power level up available for this event. This will be granted for a thread of at least 5 action/log comments containing your character utilizing their power in some way. They will need to reach the 5 comments required by FEBRUARY 23 to be eligible. Submission will be handled on the wrap up post.
Our Activity Check will be posted tomorrow, January 20, at 9 PM UTC. It will run for seven days and close on January 27. We will not post a warning list.
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meadowlarklogs2019-01-19 09:58 pm
fitz | mcu: aos.
strike team one.
For the moment, the plan that Carter outlined and others shaded in has proven successful. They bust the main apartment door with an assist from Cain on the lock and ascend. ]
Nice work. [ flickers across their locked feed, exclusive to those present here now. Then, it’s the stairs, flight after flight, seemingly endless, with Fitz and Cain at the front, Markus behind them, and Carter bringing up the rear. Around the eleventh floor, a door opens below, and everything stills.
But it’s just someone taking out their bloody bins, wheels squeaking until they catch the lift.
Fitz’s heart threatens to jackhammer out of his chest, the pressure building in his ears. They can’t fail, they won’t fail — perhaps he made that too clear in their condensed strategy session. He’s not a field agent honed by choice, but rather hardened by circumstance. And the last time he led a team like this, he was in the UNA’s armoured boots (capture, not rescue). Good thing he doesn’t have to go it alone. The calls today will be shared, and undoubtedly better for it. ]
Scouts up.
[ The signal for he and Cain to sweep the twelfth floor. No signs of forced entry, even at their target apartment, which the heads-up display on the interface immediately flags with a blinking, green dot. ]
Clear. [ As soon as Cain confirms the same of his end, it’s on him to sort the lock on Patil’s door and step aside, so Peggy and Markus can advance toward the target. A heavy firedoor obscures the stairs, blocking out the sound of footsteps (heavy, rising, synchronised). The UNA are close enough behind them that their lead eases open the door before either scout can check it again. ]
Incoming.
[ Time to see if they stick to the plan of the scout team concealing themselves and coming in behind, or if they even have time to— ]
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Another kind of war. Different stakes, different enemies, a gun in his hand.
Cain removes the first lock with careful concentration; the second is faster, more efficient, vanishing from its place and clattering to the ground nearly a meter away. Then a step aside, a survey of the length of the hall with echoed confirmation,] clear.
[There's silence, and then there's the metallic creak of the door, the tempo of heavy boots. That warning message flashes across his vision — instantaneous as a thought, another feature to marvel in all this world's unfamiliarity — but there's no time.
Cain dives behind the cover of a corner a few feet from the apartment door, curse sliding off his tongue under breath.] that was fast. counted five big guys. any eyes on the target?
[On silent feet, Cain moves back down the hall to gain distance and come in from behind just before the soldiers reach the apartment.]
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The stakes are familiar, too. She's done this before, extracting compromised agents in enemy territory, or evacuate refugees or assets (both, in the case of Dr Erskine) in the knick of time. And their time is running low, it seems, sooner than she anticipated. No matter. Her breath is steady, gaze sharp, and she monitors the messages coming into her neural implant as she slips into the apartment with Markus and immediately holds her gun aloft, finger alongside the trigger, in case Patil decides to defend herself. ]
Ishani Patil, [ she calls out softly, calm and reassuring but urgent. ] I'm Peggy, our mutual friends sent us to help you.
[ Movement in the bedroom. Her eyes flicker there and she sees the shadow of a woman in the doorway. She wonders if she should pull off her mask or if Patil will recognise the tech as Morningstar's own. Target located. ]
No time to explain, the UNA are coming. We have to go now.
[ And as if on cue, the boots echo down the hallway. Peggy looks to Markus, feeling her stomach flutter, body tensing in preparation. To him and to the other two men outside: Can you hold the line? ]
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Spine steeled, mind wrought in focus, it’s easy enough to slip inside the apartment once the path is open. Beneath an obscuring mask, keen eyes dart about, to check adjoining corridors and open-doored rooms for signs of movement, for their target, or perhaps some untimely trap. Markus keeps steady grip of his firearm in case the latter rears itself up as reality, perpetually prepared to be met with the worst case scenario.
He isn’t. Peggy finds Patil first, and Markus — aware that his own primary objective is to protect her at all costs — immediately drifts towards her. His concern that UNA soldiers might still be slinking about in her apartment is upended by a more worrisome truth: confirmation of five already on the way.]
They’re already here. [-he breathes out, the spoken word all for Patil’s sake. But the second half is for Peggy and Patil both.] Get behind me.
[Shifting his body in front of them, he stands with shoulders squared and feet planted firmly onto the ground. Markus doesn’t waste time, preferring preemptive precaution as opposed to acting too late; dark clothes and bulletproof gear obscure the blue pulsing at his chest, but the result becomes clear — in front of them, a semi-transparent shield that shimmers with lazy waves of the reflected apartment lights.
Fifteen feet by fifteen feet. Just as he had described to Fitz prior, and more than enough to keep a group of three behind cover. More than enough to be a bulwark against whatever might make it through that front door. A message to the others, android-quick:] Shields up inside.
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Coming in from behind.
[ Fitz cuts around a corner, reviewing the seconds of implant footage in a window as he peaks around in time to witness armoured backs knock and breach the door, already unlocked. If it concerns the soldiers, they don’t show it, footfalls invariable and masks fixed ahead. ]
Hierarchy indiscernible.
Handguns first. Heavy artillery holstered.
[ It’s as he hypothesised with Ignis: The UNA only has select intelligence on Morningstar. Whoever their source (or sources) was, they aren’t continuing to feed movements back up in the chain, and certainly don’t have eyes on Gaby and El’s charges. Good. Blue dots representing Peggy and Markus flicker on their live floorplan, stood at the centre of the room (past the kitchen at the entry) and exposed but for Markus’ shields in the eerie calm before the gunfire. No time to waste as Fitz and Cain meet in the middle, following suit.
Only takes seconds for the soldiers to scan their adversaries, masks running diagnostics and pinpointing Peggy and Markus’ weaponry as likely counters. Five take a triangular formation (already scoping corners and crevices for further obstacles), a cohesive unit with weapons raised in implicit threat, advancing on their target —
Suddenly, the point of the formation drops through the floor, as if it disappeared beneath them (transparent portals, their one tell the shimmering border where they end and the world begins again). The soldier reappears above, crashing on top of the man beside him. Only one other whirls, then, open-firing on the two men who stand as potential troubles, bullets ricocheting off metal appliances and chipping at weak walls — Fitz dives aside and slides with military-precision, secure behind the counter loosely separating the kitchen and sitting rooms — while the others advance on Patil as if this operation has gone to plan.
Their orders are to take the target. ]
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All thought drowns out as soon as Fitz's portal gapes open and dumps one soldier on top of another in chaotic confusion, as soon as they've hooked the attention of one and split the other two toward the original objective. Better than all five on Patil.
It becomes a series of instant, moment-to-moment action, Cain's trained instincts carrying him through that first lunge into cover as the wall near his head sprays debris. He's taken refuge behind the counter alongside Fitz. The apartment is too small for much maneuvering. That, itself, is a problem.
Steady and sure, Cain lines up the gun — and fires, feeling a kickback thrum in gloved fingertips. The stun shot to the center of a plated-armor chest knocks the soldier backward, buying precious seconds.
There's no time to celebrate. His eyes are across the room, on the others.]
fitz! need to get the heat off them
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Cain's message registers on her neural interface and she blinks it away, turning to the man next to her. ]
Get away from the windows, [ she says to both him and Patil, voice low but audible above the gunfire. They're too vulnerable by them; she doesn't know that the UNA's exit strategy is via hovercar, but it's still another point of entry to cover and they don't have enough eyes or guns. ] Go.
[ Or at the very least, they need to get a bloody wall behind them. As they inch around, Peggy sends another message to the team as a whole: ]
I'm coming out.
[ And as soon as the shield shifts, she's diving for cover behind the sofa, effectively sandwiching the soldiers between her and Fitz and Cain. She thumbs the switch on her gun to ensure it's on stun and she pops back up without hesitation, firing at the soldiers from behind. One whirls at the useless shot to his shoulder and returns fire, and she ducks. ]
We need to penetrate that armour, gents. Find a weak spot.
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His faith is rewarded. They deliver. A portal and a soldier's suddenly upended and careening down into another. The action begins properly with Fitz and Cain sliding into the fray to keep the heat off of them, and only two of the others continue their faithful match towards the android and Peggy, focused on their objective not unlike well-oiled machines.
Positions adjusted to account for the windows as advised, Markus holds steadfast as Peggy darts away and pins the soldiers between a growing tempest of gunfire. The enemy is momentarily caught in a vice, but are just as quick to return the favor, and the apartment soon becomes a storm of detritus flown off from where bullets shear away pieces of furniture, the walls, the ceiling. Markus ignores the dust from debris clouding over his head when a stray shot embeds itself above, the consequence of a thrown-off aim by a stunned soldier.
Patil remains fearfully huddled behind him, and Markus won’t be changing positions. It’s a good spot — it means that if the enemy wants to steal her away, they’ll have to get past Peggy first, and then Markus’ shields. And that’s not to say for the gunfire that’ll be pressed into their backs courtesy of Cain and Fitz.
A bullet hits his shield head on, then hovers for a second, before being blasted right back at one of the soldiers. It pummels them between the breastplate and torso of their plating, sending a crack spidering up through dark armor.]
Careful. Need line of sight to the exit for Fitz.
Shouldn't linger if we can help it.
[Their other option is to try to down all five of them, which seems unreasonably dangerous; fleeing fast with their target in tow was always optimal. But that requires proximity to the doors and windows to facilitate a quick exit.]
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giovanni.
Ah, there we are. A two-fingered salute as he approaches, weaving in and out of the other Morningstar agents, families, and their fellow displaced in the area. ]
Giovanni. [ Tone even. Lucky, that he's around: An agile and capable combatant, as Fitz knows from observing him in the rings. Capable of keeping a cool head, too, after his harrowing arrival. Giovanni suits this task. ] I'm in need of a plus one.
[ A quick gesture between them, meant to solidify their team-up. Even before Giovanni answers, he shares the brief, a quick blurb on the agent (mid-level, in one of the corporations), an apartment lower to the ground (studio floorplan attached), located half an hour's walk from here. 'Course they can halve the time, with Fitz's portal ability. The operative is of concern to Fitz because two apartments en route to her own have already been compromised by a group of three soldiers. A dotted red line indicates the suspected path of the UNA on the digital map: She's next. ]
One agent, in and out, no trouble. [ already walking past him — ] Clock's ticking.
This is so late I'm sorry
He nods, just once, seems as detached and impassive as ever, despite that the familiar jitter and jump in him is already beginning in the wake of the other man's words. Here we go, back on then, and he can already feel the itch in his trigger fingers, the desire for a fight.
For a kill.
His lips curve into a crooked-pin smile.]
Off we go, then.
[His tone is quiet but laced already with something dark, and he follows on at the other man's heels without needing to be told twice. Affixes his mask back in place.]
dick.
Hours later, dragging a dying man of their own back to the safehouse reminds him that death comes here, even if it isn't permanent (even if the main timelines are fixed), and to witness it is to feel the same visceral horror as in his own universe. He was unable to stop it (weak), air punched from his lungs, insides twisted into knots and tangles, trigger finger too slow. A blink and he marks the time on his implant on instinct. Although the immediate, crushing wave of helplessness threatens to drown him, the voice (cold, always cold) reminds him you're not finished yet. The truth is that Fitz remains complicated. Digging deeper inside himself has unearthed ugliness, but that's not the whole of him, and he knows it — hard to deny it, given the way his heart has threatened to burst from his chest throughout this operation.
When the timer on Giovanni's revival starts, Fitz staggers out of the way, half-wanting to make himself useful in the interim and half-considering a private collapse. 'Course this hallway's about as empty as it gets, with the main rooms of the safehouse bustling, as rescued agents, families, and displaced alike cluster together. Can't be sure how long he stands outside the entryway that he just bloody left, one hand on the doorframe and the other curled across his chest, faintly registering the growing ache there as painkillers and adrenaline wear off simultaneously. Do something. He drags a hand over his mouth, pushing down his nausea once more. Footsteps nearby signal someone's approach, so he manages to tilt his head enough to look and scan for injuries, brain only belatedly catching up to his eyes. ]
Dick. [ Startled. His legs carry him forward, then, a dazed propulsion. There it is again, his stupid heart. Ought to tear it out, for all the good it's done him, loud in his ears when he most needs to focus, striking an uneven tempo now despite the lack of danger. ]
Dick, [ louder in case he hadn't noticed Fitz fast approaching. For his part, he sports minor cuts and bruises, a dark splotch on his cheek, a slim bandage at his thigh, dried blood splattered across his front, matted in his short curls, and flecked up his neck (not his own, only visible against the blacks of his clothes up close). ] are you — are you alright? [ hands already reaching out, motioning for Dick to come closer. ] Did you, ah.
[ a noise that signals he has no idea what he was going to say, Did you have any trouble? Did you see Malone? Hafid? Are they okay? Is everyone okay? Dick's here, and that's — pretty good, something he hadn't realised was wedged at the back of his mind and pulsating with worry until the threat of that loss has gone, replaced with a spike of relief over the presence of Dick Grayson, alive and right here, stepping into his space. ]
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[It's barely more than a breath. Tinged in wonder, with his eyes blown wide in surprise. Because there before him, is the one person Dick hadn't been able to account for. He'd hit a dead end, when he'd tried to reach out for a status update, in the aftermath of learning Damian had fallen. He'd had contact with Jason, had the worrying encounter with Bobbi- steeped in what ifs that could have happened, if he'd just been moments later, or hadn't come across her at all. What might have happened to him if Loki hadn't found him, and taken all further decisions out of his hands and rendered all his protests useless. He'd heard from Bruce, at least over the network. But Fitz?
Had been nothing but radio silent after their initial contact. There's plenty of reasons for that- too distracted to respond- had limited or frozen access to avoid becoming distracted by them- or that he'd ended up hurt, or worse. Perhaps in a pod- perhaps stuck out there somewhere, with no one to find him. He'd run the gamut of every possible bad ending- because while he knew Fitz was capable, Bruce had been too, once, and Damian was more than that. And both had left him.
He'd had no choice about returning to the safehouse, or having his injuries seen to- but he'd have gone back eventually, regardless, to check on Damian. Had seen him, in that pod with the timer set- pressed his hands against it and tried to reject the truth right there in front of his eyes. The proof of all the ways in which he'd failed him.
In the end, he wasn't able to stay there and stare at him. Watch him and know that technology, even ones like this, weren't infallible. That this could fail. Couldn't do this- in full view of everyone. Grieve and break down and worry about those he hadn't seen. It's just pure dumb luck that the empty hallway he'd been trailing his hand along as he'd made each aching step, hadn't been quite so empty after all.
Fitz is fast approaching, has reached out towards Dick before he's even gotten close, motioning for Dick to come closer, to step into his space- and he doesn't even think before he does it. Pushes off the wall as hard as he can, and uses the momentum to propel himself forward, barely feels the pain shooting up his leg from each staggered step with his right foot, taken only on the balls of his feet. Rushes as much as he can- and it's one of the most obvious injuries about him. An old wound, he's aggravated more times than he cares to count, bound tightly in a wide bandage tensor style bandage, something to make due with until a proper brace can be found, or those with more critical injuries have been seen to first. The other- is the cut that arcs down to his left eye, so close that it clearly could have nearly blinded him. But it's the worst of it. The rest are scrapes and bruises, a graze here or there with the near misses.
The question is ignored- and because Fitz has already reached out, has his arms at the ready- Dick has no qualms at all about crashing into them, sending them staggering back a step before he braces his hands on either side of Fitz' neck, thumbs brushing the edge of his jaw, and dragging him down until he can presses his forehead to his]
Fitz. [It's a benediction, breathed against the skin so close to his own, and in the face of it, the bond signals nothing discernible at first but relief. Fitz is here, alive, warm under his hands, alive, alive, alive- it's the only thing he's registering for some time]
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Between his eyes and the implant, Fitz flags a series of worries on their way to each other. Leg injury, facial laceration, bruises all over. Christ, that's close to the eye. Did that happen during the fight where he helped Boobi, fuck, what if she, too, was hurt this badly — he's been busy, unable to help either of friends from home — stupid, he should have been there. Should have helped in the field and at the safehouses. Why can't he be everywhere at once?
In retrospect, he probably should have thought this through, 'cause the second Dick crashes into him, every bruise and broken rib smarts, a throbbing hurt that radiates outward. A choked noise of pain slips through gritted teeth, as his features scrunch, hands finding Dick's arms and fingers digging in there for purchase. Nevermind that the panicked feeling must register through the bond in some capacity, with the way it overrides his own solace at finding Dick alive. ]
H-Hey. [ A sharp exhale, working through the pain. ] Easy, easy, easy. [ Voice rapsy from the fresh stab and a long day of talking (shouting orders, walking amateurs through first-aid, calming patients). ]
[ The hands on his neck, then his jaw, pull him close to help him rebalance himself. Oh, that sort of intimacy's been rarer since the black site. Physical anchors, precisely what he needs at the best of times (and this is far from that). Dick's warm relief acts as a balm for the ache in his chest, empathetic injections to even out his breathing. Despite the initial discomfort, Fitz holds the position, eyes staying closed as the hurt subsides, helpless but to lean in until he can recover enough to do what he always does. ]
Right here. [ nose wrinkling. ] Just a bit fragile.
[ funny stuff, right... ]
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When what he gets back primarily, and what he can glean from the tight grip Fitz has on his arms, fingers digging in enough to be nearly painful, bruising- is a panic that's slowly being replaced by a sense of solace at his presence, he feels like he's made the right decision. But it does stop him from moving closer. Any weight he may have put on Fitz before, if only to ease some of the pressure on his leg, instead gets shifted to his left leg, done with an ease and a confidence within his own ability to maintain his balance no matter the circumstance.
Fitz' breathing evens out, becomes less tight with the pained reaction that Dick had incited, and it's one of the only things that let's Dick laugh at assurance- under his breath and voice thick. Eyes blinking hard once, and then squeezing shut, tight enough to tug on the edges of his wound. The burst of affection takes over everything else, drowning out the sorrow starting to filter through, warm and deep]
I can...I can see that. [And since you asked- and he's capable of forming words now-] I'm okay. All in one piece, like I promised.
[All appendages accounted for. But he's going to hang out here, all the same]
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This Fitz would say he doesn't deserve it, not after his behaviour today, but he accepts it. And Dick's dorky approach to this disaster of day disarms him, as ever. Something feeds back, more hesitant in its fondness. In moments, the affection eases into his limbs, loosening his grip. When Dick belatedly answers his question, he even huffs a near-laugh-turned-wheeze (by his pain spiking again 'cause Fitz has left it unattended since the first op, like an absolute idiot).
He tips back enough to get a better look, never one for stillness, but brings his hand up, fingers fanning at the juncture of Dick's neck and collarbone, maintaining the empathetic connection. The bond helps keep him upright. ]
Just a few chunks missing here and there, huh. [ said the wannabe slasher film extra, lightly chiding. He makes a faux noise of indecision, mouth tugging to one side. ] Suppose I'll let it slide — on a technicality.
[ Hard for him not to linger on the cut down Dick's face, or let his gaze drift down to Dick's leg. There's a joke to be had about him looking more like the rest of the population now, definitely, only he doesn't make it. Instead, a sincere little thing slips out, entirely soft. ] It's good to see you, Dick.
[ In one piece-ish. A squeeze of his arm, deemed a safe spot for reassurance. ]
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[It's a gentle chiding, the corners of his mouth twitching with a desire to smile, even if the rest of him doesn't feel up to holding the expression. That near laugh- after everything he's seen, after everything he's heard today- it's a beautiful sound, even when it ends far too soon into a wheeze that Dick has become intimately familiar with, over the years. He'd bruised his torso and broken his own ribs, in a variety of ways- from vehicular crashes to run of the mill weaponry, to being thrown clear across the room. He'd broken them, just before arriving here, and while he can't say for sure- he can guess at the ways in which Fitz is hurt.
Something hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt, unnoticeable if not for the fact that Dick had crashed directly into him and refused to let go. The way that the rest of what Fitz carries hides beneath a seemingly unflappable calm. Concern starts to filter across, little bursts beneath the warmth of his affection, in the positive emotions of receiving the fondness in return- hesitant as it might be. It causes him to linger- fingers brushing down the slope of his jaw onto the top of his chest, stays until he can feel his frame ease once more, until Fitz draws slightly back, to get a better look at him.
There's a tiredness there, as he gently starts to prod at the canvas before him, as Fitz had done to him before] Did you see someone?
[And he can guess at that answer too- when now up close, he can see the flecks of blood still dried in his hair, along his clothes- and there's a gentle chiding in that too. Didn't he tell you not to behave recklessly? His voice loses some of that soft edge, becomes dryer with a humour that definitely sounds more rote than genuine] Is it really missing, if I know exactly where they are?
[Cut across debris and other shrapnel, the business end of a weapon, across someone else's knuckles, smeared and dragged along the halls he'd wandered down. Between one breath and the next- Fitz utterly disarms him, knocks off course anything else he might have said on scraping by on a technicality- with the softly spoken pleasure at seeing him, there and whole before him, relatively. With the fingers fanning across his collarbone and the hollow of his throat, the only exposed part of him that feels unscathed.
Everything about him softens, and he blinks once, twice- hard, to clear his vision. A little of the mask that makes up Dick Grayson cracks, and the relief isn't the most solid thing he's projecting, not anymore] It's good to see you, too. When you didn't answer-
I'm happy that you're here.
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[ definitely thought about lying, but Dick’s already gently applying pressure in the right area, keenly aware of what he’s looking for — when Fitz feels the brush of his hand over the injury. Another twitch away from the touch, and his features scrunch again. No denying it. ]
There’s nothing to be done for it. [ mumbled downward. It may be true (‘cause gone are the days of wrapping and taping; ribs have to sort themselves out) but that doesn’t make it any less of an excuse. Maybe he’s just pushing himself, fearful that time may run out for someone else, when he’s the only trained surgeon (with working hands, sorry Stephen) on duty. But maybe it’s about punishing himself, too. He knows what Jemma would say. Don’t do that, at once sharp and soft. He gets caught in that thought for a moment, the hand at Dick’s neck slipping to grasp his shirt. It blurs part of their interaction.
Until it they the part where Dick stutters, just a little, cutting himself off where Fitz normally might do the same. That’s — new. Their empathetic exchange shifts with it, supplying equally unbalancing information. It’s on par with Connor’s confession to him at his birthday: Do you know how much you’ve impacted my life in the short time we’ve known one another? No, he doesn’t. How could he know how much any of them care when he gets stuck in his head, clever but lost. The sentiment silences everything in Fitz (the noise duller in his mind, just for a few seconds). Then, his mouth curves, helpless in the face of Dick’s statement, which leaves no room for questions. ]
Sorry, you know I get — [ overwhelmed, shutting out the rest of the world to protect his fraying neurology, but Dick doesn’t know in so many words. It’s Jemma and Mack that do, that he thinks of when he says you know, so he adjusts. There are still explanations owed to Dick Grayson. ] I get overwhelmed by the noise, sorry. [ ducking his head. ] I should have messaged you.
[ A shift of his grip on Dick’s arm to tug at him. ] C’mon, you should — we should sit.
aftermath.
Peggy has taken more hits than should be humanly possible or survivable. She's aware of it. Her first mission, had it happened under different circumstances and in a different time, should have been her last in any world. But she'd walked away from it — walked away unaided and under her own power. Because of her own power, she'd quickly realised; which meant she jumped at the next mission on the docket as soon as they'd gotten Patil to the safehouse. And the next, and the next, some more eventful than others, until the sun set and agents and their families were under their protection. (Or dead.)
By then, she'd catalogued her own hurts between helping tend to others or checking in on her fellow displaced via implant. Rescuing Patil had cost her a rib or two, perhaps something more, but it's lost in how her head throbs. Her leg's been bandaged, her arm not yet, there's a searing graze up her cheek and temple where a bullet glanced off her shoulder and ricocheted north. In truth, she feels like one giant bruise, head to toe, but it could and should be worse — whatever her ability is, it rendered her bulletproof. Her clothes are shredded with holes of the hits she sustained, the ruin of her vest from the one she took earlier in the day (quickly disposed of before anyone could comment on it), but the blood staining them isn't her own.
Thinking about it makes her nauseous. (Or maybe that's the concussion.) So she doesn't. Blankets delivered, she ducks out of the sleeping quarters and comes face-to-face with Fitz. She hasn't seen him since this afternoon, since their mission together. ]
Christ, [ she hisses, halting in her tracks and wincing when the jolt of movement jars her ribs, makes her head swim sickeningly. She's suddenly keenly aware of the dried blood on her cheek. ] I didn't know you were at this safehouse.
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Jesus, [ From an outside perspective, the way two grown-ass adults spring apart might be comical (or scandalous), but the shared hiss of pain sucks the humour from the moment. By now, he's been tended to by Dick and fussed over by Connor, so as "sorted" as he can be without an x-ray. He swipes a hand over his forehead and cards it back through his hair, the lines of his face visible. Weary. ] Must have lost the letter in the post.
[ An automatic, dry reply. Both of them probably updated a map or two but haven't had a moment to check it in the last half hour. Fitz still looks as if he took a refreshing dip in a bloodbath (flaking in his hair, stuck on his skin, soaked through his clothes), with touch-ups courtesy of individuals bleeding all out from gunshots and lacerations. Luckily, personal injuries appear scattered and minimal. A black sleeve has been torn open at the shoulder, caught on a cabinet in Patil's home. Later encounters rewarded him with a sliver in his skin there, patched up now, and a dashing bruise cut across his cheek. Bandages at the thigh, too, for a deeper gash.
Any apprehension at seeing her after his questionable turn as a leader (and her silent judgment) is shelved. Can't look back, when he doesn't regret his calls. Perhaps they helped carve a route to the win.
His eyes scan over her, implant overlay flagging areas of present and potential harm as he does so. Fucking hell, she looks as if she tumbled through the bloody shredder. A diagnostic loads in the corner of his vision, her wounds ranked in order of importance: Temple, arm, cheek.]
Your head — [ stepping forward into her space but stopping short of reaching out. ] Let me help — How are you standing, Carter?
[ And if she's taking questions, he has another: How are you alive? When she felt, when she stilled, when she was shot at close-range. ]
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It looks worse than it is.
[ It feels worse than it looks, all told, but she's not in the business of sharing that particular insight when resources are stretched thin — to say nothing of their patience with the situation, with their fellow displaced. (And she'd been close to losing hers with him some hours ago; it's probably for the best they hadn't reunited until now, tempers cooling in the rush of everything else, weariness chipping away at the edges.) Peggy's a woman whose endurance was honed in combat and long, frigid nights in the trenches; she learned a long time ago to do the work, to help, for as long as she was able-bodied — and in most cases that simply meant being able to stand on one's two feet and moving forward.
How are you standing, Carter? Well, barely, but she's managed this far. ]
You're a sight yourself.
[ She won't soon forget the invisible guillotine that made a red ruin of Patil's kitchen and the other agent's clothes. As he scrutinises her, so too does she with him, dark gaze raking over him from head to toe and back. Nothing serious she can see, but she's nursing a few hidden hurts herself, so that's hardly reassuring. ]
Take a shower, Agent Fitz, [ she continues, tone already dismissive, as she moves to brush past him towards the kitchens. She's aware she needs to sit down and prefers not to give him one more body to fuss over. ] I daresay you've earned yourself at least five minutes of peace and quiet.
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Of course he's being hypocritical, neglecting the need for peace and quiet to guard his mental well-being, if not his physical pain and fatigue. Regardless of whether he's in a hell of his own making, he goes on. Nothing else to do, is there? ]
Does it look worse?
[ a sharp-angled tilt of his head, challenging with the (rare) height advantage he has on her. Neither of them has or will forget the events of their first operation. Steady now. ]
Take a break, Agent Carter. [ countered low, so as not to be overheard. his tone reads as even, but there's an exasperated undercurrent — born of the same feeling that pinches his brow and tightens the corners of his mouth. ] You're of more help in one piece.
[ Better for him to patch her up and send her off. ]
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Last I checked, my pieces are all accounted for and you weren't in any position to be giving orders.
[ To her, to anyone. The only reason she hadn't bitten his head off in the immediate aftermath of this afternoon's mission is because it went as well as could be: they got out, they got Patil out. Peggy is aware it's hypocritical to disapprove of a call half as reckless as the one he made when she's notorious in the SSR for playing fast and loose with the agency's rules. But she's tired, she's in pain, she's hungry, she's strung thin, and she wants him to — ]
Stop bloody following me.
[ Said as she whips around a little too quickly, ready to say something more. Instead her head gives a vicious throb with the abruptness of her movements and she cuts herself off as the room spins and she staggers backwards, shoulder catching onto the kitchen doorway. She draws in a slow breath before gritting out: ]
Don't.
[ Don't say I told you so. Don't handle her. ]
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(She has every right to question him, not only as a peer but as a person, stood in the middle of the chaos he instigated by diverging from their plan.)
A quieter part of him second guesses, considering all the ifs. If Cain died, if Carter went down, if Markus or Patil were shot, if he himself felt a crack at his windpipe, blinking out of this world before he could execute his bloody play and portal them to safety. Leopold Fitz has gotten away with near murder, so to speak. Wringing information on people's powers from them, lying to those closest to his person, slashing at Daisy with precise cruelty — no repercussions to be found. Why not push? If it's bloody fine, he can do better, faster, harsher. Ruthless in his efficiency. Even his confession to Bobbi that he ought not be trusted has yet to yield consequences.
'Couse he follows Carter now, unafraid of a fight (been gearing up for one for some time now, actually). Although he leans forward to swoop in after her, he snaps back up at the order. Something instinctive there, to be unpacked later, as his hands drop to his sides. For now, stillness. ]
Won't. [ Won't touch her or stop following, thanks. Jaw set in irritation despite concern in his eyes, he waits a beat. Ground out — ] Until you let me.
[ He'll wait. ]
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[ Pot, kettle. Forget calling it black, the things have been painted by her own sullied hands. It's a fight not worth having, it's a fight that's come barrelling out of nowhere for no reason other than nerves pushed to the limits and injuries exacerbating what began as a civilised exchange. Is she cross with him for what happened at Patil's apartment? No, not really. Plans change on the fly all the time and it's that sort of quick thinking and flexibility that ought to be valued in an agent (less so recklessness, but again: pot, kettle). Is there a guarantee it would work all the time? No. He needs to know that. ]
Or...
[ But the words aren't coming. The lecture that is deserved is bubbling but she can't give it shape or form because she can't focus enough to do it; and more than that, what is this really about?
Maybe the fact that he was right, it's a wonder she's standing and it's not the length of the day or the severity of the injuries — it's the lack of one specific injury and that has left her deeply shaken. (Scared, whispers the back of her mind.) Would Captain Rogers have walked away from such a blow? Survived it, maybe. But he'd have been blown open like any other person made of flesh and bone.
So why wasn't she?
The moment hangs in the air, and then the fight bleeds from her bearing just as suddenly as it came. ]
Sorry. [ Peggy lifts a hand to shade her eyes from the harsh overhead lights, fingers trembling from exhaustion. She takes another careful breath, steadier, despite her protesting ribs. Get it together, Carter, this isn't you. You're better than this. ] God, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.
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