TEAM 7 HEADQUARTERS
THE TRISKELION
WASHINGTON, D.C.
By the time the Avengers arrived back in Washington, it was nearly morning. Figuring out a way to hide their comings-and-goings from Director Hill had initially proved a challenge… until they discovered that one of the traffic controllers on the Triskelion runways was a huge Captain America fanboy. All it took then was a one-on-one meeting -- and talks of how the agent would be working with Captain America on a
secret mission -- to obtain takeoff and landing codes that didn't appear on the daily flight manifests. That freed them up to come and go as they pleased, although they still took the extra precaution of scheduling their flights for off-hours. And with Hill sidelining Team 7 indefinitely, the facilities and equipment were all there to be used.
Landing in their personal hangar, the team headed inside and began to unload. As they stripped of their gear and tended to their scrapes and bruises, Steve Rogers approached Diana, who was still holding Richlen's copy of
War and Peace. Leaning against a locker with folded arms, Steve watched her trace her finger over the protrusion beneath the binding.
“Three months for this,” Diana mused.
“Doesn't seem like much, does it?”“Well, normally I'd say, ‘Don't judge a book by its cover,’ but…” Steve gave a weak smile. He knew this wasn't
really about the book. None of them had talked about what had happened in that apartment -- what Richlen had done to himself. It was grotesque. They'd have to be crazy not to wonder what it said about the enemy they now faced. Steve sensed the need to reinforce the positive.
“This is what we've been working towards. Every secret mission, every dead lead. It's finally paid off.”“Well,” said Barton,
“then let's find out what we got.” He offered a hand to Diana. She handed him the book. Spinning it around, Barton considered the shape beneath the binding. He drew a knife from his belt and made an incision along the inside cover. Probing a finger inside, he drew out a tiny thumb drive. The rest of the team gathered around to consider it as Clint held it up to the light.
Vic reached out for it.
“May I?” Barton handed it over. Victor Stone had been the newest addition to the Avengers’ roster; they brought him on when it became clear that the team needed someone with the technical know-how to go after Hydra. His father, Silas Stone, had been working on an experiment in interdimensional travel for SHIELD when tragedy struck. To save his son’s life, Silas had fused Victor’s body with top-of-the-line cybernetics. Vic plugged the drive into a port on his wrist; a blue holographic display appeared above his palm.
“Unsurprisingly, it's encrypted,” he reported.
“How long will it take to crack?” Steve asked.
Cyborg frowned.
“Richlen had access to some seriously high-level encryption. Looks like an evolving algorithm, rewriting itself every couple hours. And there’s a built-in killswitch; after the third failed attempt to access the data, the drive wipes itself,” he observed. With his free hand, he scratched the back of his neck. Shaking his head, he said,
“This is going to take a little while, even for me. I’d say… a week, maybe two.”“Hydra will learn of Richlen’s death soon, if they have not already,” Tatsu pointed out.
“If they have reason to suspect he may have divulged critical information…”“Then they’ll have a two week headstart on us,” Barton finished for her, grimly.
To feel the mood in the room, one would not think that the Avengers had just scored their first significant victory in the fight against Hydra. Of course, it was hard to feel accomplished when they still could not completely grasp the scale of their task. Again, Steve felt compelled to lift the spirits.
“That may be, but we should only worry about what we can control. We have the drive, and soon we will have the names of other Hydra agents and sympathizers. Considering yesterday we only knew the identity of one, I’d call that a win,” Steve said.
“For now, I say we take advantage of the time to rest up. After three months of constant searching, it’ll be nice to have a break.”GEORGETOWN
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The sun had risen by the time Steve pulled his motorcycle onto his street. Obviously, making permanent residence in Wyoming while working in D.C. wasn't feasible -- nor did Steve care to stay at a hotel indefinitely -- so he dipped into his savings to pick up an apartment in this little Georgetown brownstone. The neighborhood was quiet and far from the craziness of the Capitol, so it fit Steve's wants and needs nicely. Of course, staying in Washington meant getting around… which is where the motorcycle came in. It had been a restoration job, giving Steve something to occupy his mind in his limited downtime.
Heading inside, Steve stopped at the mailboxes, where he ran into his neighbor, Bernadette “Bernie” Rosenthal. The sharply-dressed woman had her BlackBerry glued to her ear, as usual, and was in the middle of tearing into the person on the other end of the line. Steve tried to respect her privacy and not eavesdrop, but he could not help but catch bits and pieces of the conversation.
“Listen to me: you tell the Congressman that if he wants to play hardball, we won't hold back. You understand? Good. Call me back with what he says,” Bernie finished, hanging up abruptly. She looked at Steve and said,
“Sorry about that.”Mail in hand, Steve shook his head.
“Not at all. Just glad I wasn't on the receiving end,” he smiled. He closed his mailbox and added,
“You're up early today.”Bernie smirked.
“Yeah, it can look that way when you haven't actually slept, huh?” she countered. A Chicago native, Bernie was a staffer for a junior Congressman from Illinois who had designs on the presidency in 2028; she planned to do everything in her power to get him there. As she collected her own mail, she remarked,
“You know, sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't have just taken my mother's career advice.”Steve raised an eyebrow.
“Why, what did she think you should do?”“Glassblowing,” Bernie answered, earning a laugh. At that moment, her phone rang. Glancing at it to determine the caller and then back at Steve, she said,
“I should probably take this. Good to see you.” As she wandered out of earshot, Steve could again hear her getting wound up, talking animatedly about an “agenda,” “votes,” and “campaign promises.”
Steve headed upstairs. His apartment was on the fourth floor, just across from Mrs. Kapplebaum, a lovely old woman whose family fled Germany during Hitler's rise to power when she was only a girl. She liked to talk to Steve at length about those days, unaware that he understood far better than most. She also baked an incredible
Streuselkuchen, a treasured family recipe. Steve passed her door and arrived at his own. As he took out his keys, another door down the hall opened.
“Steve, I'm glad I caught you!” It was Arnie Roth, another of Steve's neighbors. The portly man always seemed to wear a smile and was friends with most everyone in the building. Arnie came down the hall, jacket tucked under his arm.
“Michael and I are hosting a holiday party for the tenants this Saturday. We'd love if you could make it!”Steve offered a smile as he fit his key into the lock.
“We'll see, Arnie. I may be out of town this weekend.”Arnie nodded understandingly.
“Work's got you traveling a bunch, huh?” he asked.
“Something like that,” Steve answered with a grin. The door to his apartment lurched open, and Steve waved goodbye to his neighbor. Stepping inside, he tossed his keys and mail onto the table beside the door and began shedding his coat. The sound of toenails rapping on the hardwood floor alerted him to Scout's approach. Steve knelt down and greeted the dog, scratching him behind his ears. Scout had adjusted to his new home nicely, although he surely missed the great outdoors -- as did Steve.
Steve poured out a bowl of dry food for Scout and continued on towards the bathroom. He needed a hot shower to scour the dirt and grime of the favela from his skin. Standing beneath the showerhead, Steve felt a sting and discovered a graze along his abdomen; in the heat of things, he hadn't even felt the bullet catch him. Scrubbing out the spot, Steve watched the blood turn a pinkish-white as it mixed with the running water and disappeared down the drain. He dried off and applied a bandage. The wound would be gone in a day.
Finding Scout waiting for him outside the bathroom, Steve said,
“What, you don't like being cooped up, either?” The dog tilted his head. Steve nodded.
“Alright, come on.” He fetched Scout's leash and put on a heavy jacket. Grabbing his keys, he held the door open for Scout, who wasted no time dashing out into the hall. Steve followed a bit slower and lead the dog down the stairs and out onto the street.
There was a park not far from Steve's apartment building. At this time of day and in this cold, the foot traffic was light. Steve followed behind Scout, who was just happy to be getting fresh air. In his own way, Steve enjoyed it, too. The cold air was bracing; it helped him shake off the effects of multiple consecutive nights with only minimal sleep. Finding Richlen had been too important to rest, and -- even as a Super-Soldier -- it was catching up to him. Still, Steve imagined there would be a great deal more sleepless nights ahead.
Sniffing at the sidewalk, Scout led Steve over towards a bench in the center of the park. The woman sitting there seemed to pay them little mind, although she spoke up when approached.
“It's funny,” she began,
“When I heard you had a dog, I sort of pictured a golden retriever.” Steve took a good look at the woman for the first time and finally recognized her; with her peacoat and scarf, the Acting Director of SHIELD looked much different than she did at the office.
“I suppose it would be naive to think that you just happened to live around here,” Steve thought aloud. Director Hill shot him a glance, and he took the hint. Shortening up Scout's leash, Steve took the available seat at the end of the bench and said,
“I always thought that the ‘two spies meeting on a park bench’ was something that only happened in movies.”Hill shrugged, her gaze fixed ahead.
“Well, I would've come to your apartment instead, but I didn't want to ruin your chances with that congressman's aide.” When she felt Steve's surprised stare, she finally looked his way and said,
“I have the world's most sophisticated intelligence-gathering network at my disposal, and you think I don't know about your crush?” He let out a snort, and she turned her attention back to the park.
“You had better hope she's been less attentive.”Still, it gave Steve pause. If Director Hill knew about Bernie, was there any way she
didn't know about the Avengers? They had been careful to cover their tracks -- particularly with Cyborg’s tech disrupting any possible surveillance technology, including cameras, on their missions -- but Hill clearly knew more about them than she let on. Just how
much she knew was the question. As Steve contemplated this, Scout inched up to Hill and began sniffing at her feet.
“I guess he likes you,” Steve remarked.
Hill looked down at the dog, offering a gloved hand to sniff.
“In Washington, that'd be a first,” she mused. It was true: Maria Hill's tenure as Acting Director of SHIELD hadn't exactly been met with resounding support. Hill had an abrasive personality. So did Fury, to be fair, but
his came with decades of experience in the military and intelligence to back it up. Then, of course, there was the unspoken reality that Nick Fury was a man and thus had been held to a different standard; his gruffness had been seen as almost charming, an allowance not granted to Hill.
For his part, Steve got the impression that Hill was just someone trying to do their best in an uncomfortable situation. He was sure that becoming SHIELD's Director was one of her goals, though certainly not like this. Being thrust into the position so suddenly often put her at odds with the Fury loyalists who objected to her managerial style. Even Steve had to admit that he didn't agree with some of Hill's decisions; as predicted, she had kept Team 7 on a much tighter leash and adopted a tougher stance on metahumans in general. Still, he didn't need to see eye-to-eye with the woman to respect her or the office she held. In time, he hoped, he could even bring her in on the Avengers’ project.
“My approval rate is far from our largest concern, however,” the Director continued. She reached over her side and produced a dossier. As she handed it to Steve, she explained,
“Someone hit a SHIELD substation in Rome, cleaned out the armory. They made off with millions of dollars in cutting edge, military-grade weapons and prototypes.”Steve furrowed his brow. He opened the folder to find a page of information on SHIELD's Roman base, including schematics and blueprints. Paging through it, he found screenshots of the heist in question. The crew was generally nondescript, looking like any sort of paramilitary group these days... save for their apparent leader; standing a head above everyone else in frame, the imposing figure wore a white strapped harness and skull mask.
“What kind of outfit is coordinated enough to take on SHIELD?” Steve asked as he stared at the skull.
The Director nodded for him to continue. On the next page was a headshot of a bald, scowling man with colorless eyes and a cleft lip.
“Meet Brock Rumlow,” Hill announced. Beneath the picture were documents: a criminal rap sheet and a record of military service. The Director narrated,
“A real charmer. Served time in juvenile detention for an assault on a classmate; the kid needed twenty-six stitches and nine screws. After getting out, he did what any psychopath with no other prospects would do: he enlisted.”“Even with a juvenile felony? Guess the recruitment officer saw that as a sign of potential,” Steve scowled. He had served alongside his fair share of bad apples. The military's cocktail of violence and authority attracted types like Rumlow. They didn't give a damn about serving; they just wanted an excuse to hurt others.
“Well, Rumlow rose fast, eventually joining Special Forces. There, he racked up a kill count that would make the Punisher blush. He was eventually dishonorably discharged -- surprise, surprise -- over an incident involving the apparent rape and beating of a widow in Yemen. After that, he began traveling the world, selling his services under the codename ‘Crossbones,’" Hill concluded.
“His crew has been responsible for coups, assassinations, and general acts of violence all over the globe. They'll do anything for the right price.”Steve nodded.
“I'm all for going after Rumlow, but why not bring a team in on this?” He looked to the Director.
“SHIELD has plenty of resources in that part of the world.”Hill turned to consider him with something like self-doubt in her eyes. After a moment, she looked away and said,
“Nick Fury held the world together with bandages and string. And with him gone, it's all threatening to unravel. If word got out that you can hit SHIELD with impunity, like sticking up the clerk at 7/11? It would be open season out there.” The unspoken implication was there: no one
feared Maria Hill the way they feared Nick Fury. Asking for help was tantamount to failure in her eyes.
Steve gathered himself, shutting the folder.
“So we keep it small,” he agreed,
“a one-person manhunt. Where are we with Rumlow?”“I deployed SHIELD facial recognition algorithms to comb through data from all around the world; closed circuit televisions, red light cameras, even available cell phone data. We finally turned up a hit,” she explained. She passed Steve a photograph. Even with the blurry security camera quality, Rumlow's distinctive facial structure was apparent.
“This was taken two nights ago in Tangier.”“You think he's meeting the buyer?” Steve asked.
“Or an intermediary. Either way, it's a safe bet that the stolen weapons are close at hand.” She collected the photograph and the dossier, adjusting her scarf. Giving Scout one last pat, she stood and put her hands in her pockets. Turning to look back at Steve, she asked,
“How soon can you be in the air?”
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