nitemare shape
Sep
Fetzen
Morden Man
QUINJET
D.C. AIRSPACE
LOCAL TIME 2345 (EST)
D.C. AIRSPACE
LOCAL TIME 2345 (EST)
The mood on the Quinjet ride back had been somber. It was true that they had halted the Liberators' weapons production and captured many of their men, but Abdul al-Rahman had escaped. Worse, the torching of the facility meant that they were unable to determine what, exactly, the Liberators had been working on. The locals pressed into hard labor for the insurgents had been less than helpful, despising the Americans even more than their captors, and those who were willing to talk did not know what they were building. Fury told the team that they'd be monitoring all channels, alerting agents and informants everywhere to keep their ears to the ground about al-Rahman's whereabouts. "If he shows his face within ten klicks of civilization, we'll know about it," the Director had assured them with unflagging confidence. Confidence that the team, frankly, did not share. Their leads had quite literally gone up in smoke. And no one blamed themselves more than Steve Rogers.
On that point, he was not alone.
"We would have had him if John Wayne over there hadn't gotten so careless!" Barton barked, gesturing angrily at Steve. "If he hadn't wanted to prove what a big damn hero he was, we could've gone in together and taken him down!"
Sam stepped between Barton and Rogers, wearing a stern expression. "Ease up, Clint! Cap was just trying to do his job."
"And there's no guarantee the Colonel would have waited around long enough for us to regroup," chimed in Katana from her seat. Still wearing her mask, she polished her blade and kept her head down, though Rogers could have sworn he saw her eyes dart in his direction when she spoke. In any case, Sam nodded in agreement.
Barton was in no mood to have his mind changed. "I don't know how it worked in the forties, pal, but for a captain, you're not much of a team player! You think you can just suit up after twenty years on the bench and take the game-winning shot? I got news for you, 'Captain': you're not the player you used to be!"
Barton was a loudmouth, but he wasn't wrong. Everything he was saying, Steve had already thought. It was foolish to take on the Colonel alone; the kid was every bit as young, fast, and strong as Rogers had once been. Even in his prime, Steve wasn't sure he could've beaten him. Al-Rahman fought with an intensity, a rage, that Steve never possessed. He was just lucky he hadn't gotten himself killed. As it was, his every muscle ached, and the slash up his torso alternated between itching and burning the entire ride home. His left arm -- the one that had been cut -- was numb from the shoulder down. He had surely suffered some nerve damage. He wondered if perhaps he didn't belong in the field anymore.
THE TRISKELION
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
LOCAL TIME 1022 (EST)
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
LOCAL TIME 1022 (EST)
Steve stood at the edge of the hallway, staring out the enormous plate glass windows that overlooked the Potomac. It had been a week since the team returned to Qurac. Steve's arm still tingled every time he flexed his fingers; SHIELD's doctors had told him that he could expect to regain full feeling in three months, back to full strength another six to nine months after that. His metabolism burned through painkillers too quickly to be of much use, so he'd just have to deal with the stabbing pains in his shoulder in the meantime. It wasn't like Steve was unaccustomed to pain. Once, in Vietnam, he had crawled through six miles of mud with a seven-inch incision along his stomach. Only his accelerated healing had protected him from a terrible infection.
While Steve stared out over the placid waters, contemplating his defeat at the hands of the world's newest Super-Soldier, Director Fury stepped up beside him. He didn't have to look to know it was Fury; the Director's quiet, composed presence spoke for itself. Nor did Captain Rogers say anything. He knew that whatever Nick had come to say, he would share in his own time. So, the two men stood for a time, saying nothing and looking out over the river, until Fury finally obliged, "There's been a possible sighting in Khandaq."
Rogers could tell by the Director's tone that he wasn't hopeful. There had been a few possible sightings since al-Doha, and none had proven true. Abdul al-Rahman had gone to ground. Still, there was no point in getting complacent; every lead had to be investigated thoroughly. Straightening his shoulders -- and trying not to wince through the pain -- Captain Rogers asked, "When do we leave?"
"We don't," Nick answered at first. When he felt Steve looking at him, he explained, "I've already sent Barton and Yamashiro to check it out." To his credit, Fury's expression softened in something resembling remorse. He wouldn't say it, but the implication was clear: Captain America wasn't ready for the field. He was a liability to the mission. Rogers wanted to be offended, but he wasn't sure if Nick was entirely wrong. Glancing Steve's way, Fury reasoned, "Better to keep it small. Attract less suspicion." It was a lie in service of protecting the Captain's wounded pride. That almost hurt more than the shoulder.
There was something Steve had to know. "Why haven't you sent me home, Nick?"
The Director hadn't been expecting the question. Ever careful with his words, Fury paused a moment to consider his answer. Finally, he came upon it -- or, at least a version he was willing to share. "I meant what I said to you back in Wyoming," he said. "This was our mess. I thought you deserved the chance to set things right." Setting his jaw, he turned his eyes back to the Potomac. "You're a better man than me, Steve. I knew something like that... it'd eat you up inside."
For once, Rogers believed him. For all Nick's faults -- and there were plenty -- Steve had to remember that they had been friends once. And even when he didn't always agree with Nick's methods, Steve knew that Fury did the things he did for the same reason Steve did: Because he thought it was right. To that point, maybe they and Colonel Abdul al-Rahman weren't so different.
"If you had a chance to go back, to choose to do it differently," Steve began, "would you?"
"No," Fury answered unwaveringly.
That took Steve aback. "You still think what we did to that country was right?" he asked, incredulous.
"I think," Fury turned, "that a vibranium mound in the hands of a hostile foreign regime could have been disastrous. And I think that if we hadn't taken it, someone worse would have. Kattuah put a target on his back the second he held that press conference." Softening, Fury added, "What I would have done differently was offer aid and protection when it was done. I wouldn't have thrown the body to the wolves. I own my part in creating Abdul al-Rahman." He looked back over the river. "Now, let's catch the son of a bitch."
THE WASHINGTON MONUMENT
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
LOCAL TIME 2034 (EST)
DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA
LOCAL TIME 2034 (EST)
The National Mall was a sight to see at night. As the sun went down, the tourists wise enough to take shelter from the midday sun came out to explore the lawns and the monuments by streetlight. Without afternoon crowds to contend with, the people could wander at their leisure, chatting and laughing and enjoying the shimmering impressions of the lights in the massive Reflecting Pool. At the center of the Mall, illuminated by a ring of spotlights, the Washington Monument towered up towards the stars above. On a breezy night such as this, the flags surrounding the Monument flapped lazily against their poles. Tourists stopped and took pictures, craning their necks to capture the obelisk's lofty peak.
The park rangers were still about at this hour, ready to answer guests' every question about the Monument. The oldest of these, an elder statesman named Stan, wandered aimlessly, stopping only to smile and wave at the young boys and girls who came to marvel at the structure. Most days, Stan couldn't remember where he had left his shoes, but when it came to Washington, D.C., trivia, there wasn't a sharper mind in the district. For the sake of his health, some of the other rangers had suggested that he might hang up his hat and badge, but they all liked Stan well enough to not press the issue. He was a staple, every bit a landmark as the Monument itself.
Coming around to the western side of the Monument, with the Capitol shining in the distance, Stan found himself facing a lone gentleman wearing a backpack and a thick, hooded coat. Ever the gracious host, Stan took it upon himself to approach the visitor. "She's a beauty, isn't she?" he asked with a smile. "From 1884 to 1889, the Washington Monument was the tallest structure in the world!" He spoke with the enthusiasm of a proud parent. Sidling up beside the gentleman, Stan looked skyward. "Did you know the Monument took thirty-six years to complete?"
The gentleman said nothing. He merely lowered his head and shrugged the heavy bag off his shoulder. Stan, who was already lost in the sea of facts and figures in his head, paid him no mind. It was only when he saw the gentleman reaching into his jacket that Stan seemed to realize he wasn't talking to himself. "Do you have a camera?" he asked the gentleman. "I'd be happy to take your pic--"
A red-hot staff lanced through the center of Stan's chest, erupting through his shoulder blades. The park ranger made no sound as the life left his body. A few tourists who saw what happened began to scream and scramble across the lawn, looking to put as much distance between themselves and the attacker as possible. It made no difference; soon, there would be nowhere they were safe. As Colonel Abdul al-Rahman drew his weapon from the park ranger's corpse, he shed his disguise. <<"On my mark,">> he called over his commlink.
The Colonel knelt down and unzipped his bag. Inside was a cylindrical piece of machinery; the center of the device was made of plexiglass and revealed an uneven crystal supported by a series of pistons. Al-Rahman placed the device at the base of the obelisk and began priming switches. The Monument had taken almost forty years to complete, but it would only take one night to destroy. Once all was ready, the Colonel stood and gave the order. The machine whirred to life before sending out a shockwave that shook the entire Mall and sent ripples across the Reflecting Pool. A huge crack snaked up the side of the Washington Monument.
In the distance, the sounds of a city thrown into chaos could be heard as four other machines of identical build came to life. All over the district, the ground shook. America's day of judgment was at hand.
