Chapter 13: Earning Your Stripes
Steve's eyes swept the marketplace, analysing every
angle with rapid tactical precision. His gaze locked onto a delivery truck
partially hidden between the furthermost market stalls. It was positioned perfectly—close
enough to the office building where the potential buyers were converging, but provided
multiple escape routes.
"Sam, can you get into the electrical
grid?"
"Already mapping the junction boxes," Sam
replied. "What’re you thinking?"
"Localised power disruption," Steve
murmured, almost to himself, as if still thinking the plan through. "When
those buyers are inside the building, trigger a controlled blackout. Nothing
dangerous, just enough to create confusion. Nat, Bucky, use the outage to
isolate and neutralise the roof guards. Wanda, it’s going to be chaotic. Pinpoint
the lead-lined container and keep your eye on it."
Steve watched the scene below from inside the
apartment, his mind calculating every potential variable. The plan wasn't just
about stopping the auction and retrieving the compound—it was about protecting
everyone in the vibrant, unsuspecting marketplace.
"On my mark," he said softly, waiting for
the perfect moment to set their strategy in motion.
The rumble came first—a low, rhythmic vibration that
undercut the market's ambient noise. A matte-black cargo truck, incongruous and
menacing, rolled into the square like a charging bull, heading straight for the
office building.
"Nat, Buck–" Steve started, but Natasha
was already moving, her fingers ghosting over the holster hidden beneath
flowing fabric.
"Incoming," she breathed, just as the
truck's rear doors exploded open.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
The Bus shuddered slightly as it cut through a patch
of turbulence, but no one in the cabin flinched. FitzSimmons were seated at the
far end of the table, their heads bent together over a tablet. Jemma gestured
emphatically at the screen, her voice an excited murmur of technical jargon
that adorably fuelled Fitz’s rapid-fire responses.
A diagram of some kind flashed across the tablet’s display,
its details too complex to decipher from this distance, but the two scientists
were clearly in their element. Seeing them so passionate about their work made
your lips quirk up in a soft smile. What you would give for that level of
passion.
As you explored the spacious interior, you spotted
Agent May near the cockpit, leaned casually against a bulkhead with her arms
crossed. Her focus drifted somewhere beyond the confines of the plane, yet,
even standing still, she exuded an air of readiness. As if she could spring
into action at a moment’s notice. In that way, she reminded you a little of
Natasha. Well… either that, or it’s the fact that she deliberately kept her
distance from you. And the perpetual stoic disposition. And her very obvious
trust issues. And maybe she had a hint of Natasha’s ‘don’t-fuck-with-my-family’
going on.
Across the cabin, Agent Ward meticulously checked
the contents of his gear bag. You noticed how his eyes flicked up every so
often, scanning the room like a security camera, catching details most people
would miss.
You finally settled, trying to stay as unobtrusive as
possible, but unable to suppress the feeling of being an outsider. In an
attempt to self-soothe, your fingers brushed the S.H.I.E.L.D. ID still hanging
around your neck. Y/N. Consultant. You weren’t Jane Doe anymore. Coulson
had given you an identity. But if you were meant to fit in here, it wasn’t
clear yet how. And that thought nagged at you like a pebble in your shoe.
As you let your gaze sweep over the team, a sharp,
insistent beep cut through the cabin, its urgency pulling every gaze toward the
source.
Ward was already on his feet, turning back toward
you and FitzSimmons. “Stay put,” he barked. His eyes flicked to you a second
time, the silent warning clear: Don’t try playing hero; this is my domain.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
Time seemed to stand still as the square transformed
from a peaceful market into a multilayered battlefield. Stealth operatives
rolled out of the truck like deadly tumbleweeds, their gas masks already in
place, alerting the others that some serious shit was about to go down.
Gas canisters arced through the air, trailing thin
wisps of pale green, smashing through the office building windows.
"Wanda, the kids!" Steve yelled from
across the schoolyard.
But Wanda was already moving. A crimson energy field
burst from her hands, creating a translucent dome around the nearest cluster of
children. The gas billowed against her protection, dissipating against an
invisible wall.
"I've got the tunnels," Natasha's voice cut
through the pandemonium as she sprinted toward the open manhole, her sundress
rippling behind her like a battle flag. Bucky was already gone, his athletic
physique vanishing into the warren of alleyways in pursuit of the fleeing
operatives.
Above, Sam engaged the rooftop hostiles. Metal
clashed against metal as he parried a strike. "A little crowded up here,
Cap!"
Steve charged through the mayhem, his shield
deflecting bullets that pinged from all angles. Two operatives blocked his path
to the building's entrance. He launched his shield, catching it on the ricochet
as both men crumpled.
Through the comms came the sounds of their parallel
battles: Natasha's shallow breaths as she navigated the tunnels, Bucky's boots
pounding pavement, Sam's mechanical wings cutting through air, and Wanda's strained
voice as she maintained the crimson barrier around terrified schoolchildren.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know things
were not looking great for the team. And worst of all, no one had eyes on the
Project X Compound.
Meanwhile, inside the office building, the real
mission unfolded.
The unknown operatives moved through gas-filled
corridors, their respirators filtering toxic clouds. No hesitation. No
deviation. Their movements were synchronised, each step more purposeful than
the last.
Locked doors were mere inconveniences. Precision
charges obliterated security barriers, while electronic locks surrendered to their
advanced hacking devices. These weren’t ordinary soldiers or mercenaries. They
were finely-tuned instruments of destruction, engineered for a single purpose:
recover the compound, no matter the cost.
The lead operative marched down the final corridor.
His team flanked him in perfect formation, weapons raised, sweeping every
shadow. The reinforced door to the secure lab stood like a monolith before
them—twenty inches of hardened steel and electronic safeguards.
He pressed his palm against the cold metal, fingers
splaying across its surface. Everything had led to this moment. In his
earpiece, chaos still erupted from the streets above—screams, gunfire, the
sounds of his own men battling the Avengers. But “leave no man behind” was not
a core principle of his. It was get in, retrieve the compound, and get out.
The compound sat innocently in its containment
unit—a small vial of… blood? All this bloodshed, all this chaos, for
something that could fit in his palm?
"Pack it up," he ordered, voice flat
behind his respirator. His team moved swiftly, securing the compound in a
specialised transport case.
Through his tactical goggles, he watched the case
disappear into a team member's pack. Mission accomplished.
Like ghosts, they shed their tactical gear,
revealing pressed business suits underneath. Respirators and weapons vanished
into hidden compartments within briefcases. Within seconds, they transformed
from military precision into corporate mundanity. Just another group of office
workers heading home for the day.
They filtered out through different exits, blending
seamlessly into the crowd of panicked employees evacuating the building. A
woman in a pencil skirt clutching her purse against her chest. A man loosening
his tie, desperately searching for his son. Two colleagues across the street, seemingly
panic-stricken, hopping a taxi together.
By the time Steve burst through the lab door, there
was nothing left but an empty containment unit and the lingering scent of cyanogen
chloride.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
May emerged from the pilot's seat, meeting Ward
halfway with a curt nod. Their silent communication reminded you of how Steve
and Natasha would share entire conversations in a single look.
"Should we be worried?" Jemma whispered to
Fitz, who was already pulling up diagnostic screens on his tablet.
"No, no, probably just a sensor malfunction. Though
the quantum resonance readings are a bit... odd."
You leaned back in your seat, forcing yourself to
breathe against the growing knot of unease in your stomach. “They know what
they're doing,” you told yourself. “This is their territory.”
Jemma’s worried glance met yours across the cabin.
"I'm sure it's just–"
The rest of her sentence was lost in a sudden,
blinding flash. A beam of intense blue light erupted from a storage
compartment, cutting through the air like a knife. The cabin lurched violently,
metal screaming as a massive explosion tore through the hull.
Yellow oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling,
swaying wildly in the chaos. Papers and loose equipment went flying as the
cabin depressurised. Through the smoke and confusion, you saw Coulson slam
backward from the command centre. He held onto a loose seatbelt for dear life,
inches away from being sucked out through the jagged hole in the hull.
"Sir!" Ward yelled, his voice inaudible
over the cacophony of alarms and rushing wind.
FitzSimmons clung to their seats, faces pale with
shock, while May fought her way back toward the cockpit. You squeezed your eyes
shut. Inhale through the nose… exhale through the mouth… Again, inhale… and
exhale…
This was not your first crisis. You could feel it in
your bones. As your senses sharpened, your body silently urged you forward,
even if your mind couldn’t quite fathom the who, what, or why.
Your seatbelt clicked open before conscious thought
caught up. The wind whipped violently around you as you stood, your boots
finding purchase against the tilting floor with unexpected confidence.
"Y/N, what are you doing?" Ward shouted.
"Sit your amnesiac ass down!"
But you ignored him, muscle memory carrying you
toward the emergency supplies. Your hands found the sealant foam canister
exactly where you somehow knew it would be.
"Jemma!" you called out, tossing her a respirator.
She caught it reflexively, eyes wide with surprise. "I need your
help!"
"Have you gone mad? Let the others handle this!"
The hull breach roared like an angry beast, metal
groaning under the strain. Above the jagged opening, Coulson swung precariously,
his grip on the frayed seatbelt weakening with each violent shudder of the
plane.
That seemed to snap Jemma into focus. She looked
from Coulson to the sealant foam in your hands. "Right. What do you need
me to do?"
You were already moving toward the breach,
calculating trajectory and wind resistance as naturally as breathing.
"Follow my lead with the catalyst. We'll need to work fast. The cold air's
going to affect the settling time."
The wind whipped your hair as you approached the
breach, but your hands remained steady. You sprayed the sealant while Jemma
followed with the hardening catalyst, the two of you working in sync as if
you'd trained for this exact scenario.
"We're losing altitude!" Fitz's panicked
voice cut through the chaos. "I need more time to override–"
"Forget the override!" you yelled, the
certainty in your voice giving him pause. "Run the power through the
backup circuits manually. Trust me."
"That's not–"
"Auxiliary power, junction B-7," you
called out, never breaking rhythm with the sealant application. "Bypass
the main computer entirely. Wire it straight through."
Fitz hesitated for only a second before his fingers
flew across the controls. The plane's descent began to slow, and above you,
Coulson managed to grab a more secure handhold.
"It's... it's actually working," Fitz
breathed, his disbelief evident.
The temporary patch started to hold, the violent
wind dying down to an angry whisper. You caught Ward watching you with an
unreadable expression, but there wasn't time to analyse it.
"Jemma, one more layer," you directed.
"Three o'clock to nine, quick sweeping motions."
She complied without question this time, her earlier
scepticism replaced by professional focus. The patch sealed completely, and the
cabin pressure began to stabilise.
Ward moved over to help Coulson, but his eyes never
left you. "Do you have a death wish, or are you always this
reckless?"
You pressed the final seal into place, the foam
hardening rapidly under the catalyst. "Neither," you replied, meeting
his steady gaze. "Just trying to keep us alive."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
The Quinjet fell silent, each team member lost in
their own version of what went wrong.
Sam shifted in his seat before he finally gave voice
to what they were all thinking. "We needed help. An extra set of
hands."
"Sam, not now," Steve warned in defeated exasperation.
Sam leant forward, elbows on his knees. "No,
now... Not all of us have super senses. I've been saying this for the longest
time. Real-time surveillance should be–“
Bucky’s arm whirred as he turned around, face
scrunched. "Don't start with the supercomputer thing again..."
"I'm not suggesting a supercomputer. Just
something that can access and analyse information from, say, satellites, street
cameras, communication networks... Anything to give us an advantage." Sam's
eyes moved from face to face, seeking support.
Natasha's hands stilled on her weapon. "He's
not wrong, Steve. They played us like a symphony today. Every move calculated,
every contingency covered."
Steve swivelled in his chair, the autopilot's soft
beeping punctuating the tension. His eyes fixed on Sam with a particular
intensity he subconsciously reserved for tactical discussions. "So, what
are you proposing? A programme that gives us unparalleled situational
awareness?"
"Something like that, yeah." Sam
straightened, warming to his subject. "Sometimes, we have to make
strategic decisions with little to no time to think."
"And this programme would, what, determine the
best course of action?"
"Exactly! Process data in real-time. Maybe hack
into and manipulate electronic systems..."
The suggestion hung in the air. Natasha raised an
eyebrow, Bucky rolled his eyes… But Wanda lifted her head from the window,
intrigued, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten.
"Wouldn't it be easier and more cost effective
to have a technician on the inside doing the same thing?"
Steve leaned back, crossing his arms. "Not for
what Sam’s suggesting. A technician wouldn't have the same computational speed
or objectivity. We need something that can process multiple scenarios
simultaneously."
Sam nodded. "Someone—or something—that can
analyse threats, predict movement patterns, hack communication networks,
provide real-time strategic recommendations."
Natasha's fingers drummed against her weapon case.
"We're talking about an AI system integrated with S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most
classified databases. That's not a small ask."
"And not just any AI," Steve mused.
"We need someone who understands our operational dynamics. Someone who
knows how we think, how we move."
The jet fell silent. This wasn’t just a simple tech
solution. Essentially, they were talking about finding someone who could
anticipate their every tactical nuance.
Finally, Sam’s jaw dropped. "Here’s a crazy
idea..."
All eyes turned to him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
"I don't understand," Fitz finally said,
looking at you. "How did you know exactly what to do?"
"Those weren't even standard S.H.I.E.L.D. procedures."
Ward approached, reluctant admiration in his eyes.
Jemma interjected before you could respond, her
excitement, as always, bubbling over. "Did you see how she stabilised the
hull? I mean, the circuit bypass was brilliant! Absolutely brilliant! Makes me
wonder what else goes on in that head of yours."
May said nothing, but her eyes—usually so
guarded—held a hint of something new. Respect.
You shifted uncomfortably under their gaze. Truthfully,
you didn’t have an answer. Muscle memory was one thing, but this was something
else entirely. Stabilising the hull, knowing exactly where to find the
emergency supplies… it was as though you’d walked this same path before, like
your body remembered what your mind couldn’t.
“I don’t know,” you finally admitted. “It just...
came to me.”
Ward exchanged a look with May. "It came to
you? You’re saying this was instinct?"
"That’s the only explanation I’ve got.”
Coulson, leaning casually against a cargo crate,
broke the tension with a wry smile. “Well, whatever it is, it saved our skin
today. I’ll take a mystery over a disaster any day.”
Moments later, Fitz and Ward returned triumphantly,
each carrying handfuls of clinking bottles. Fitz passed one to Jemma, who
accepted it with a roll of her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. Ward handed
one to May, who raised an eyebrow but took it without comment.
“Sir?” Fitz offered, holding out a bottle.
Coulson chuckled and waved it away. “Someone’s got
to stay sober to fill out the paperwork. You kids enjoy.”
When Ward extended one toward you, you hesitated
before accepting. It was the closest thing to camaraderie you’d ever felt. You
let yourself enjoy the moment, even as the questions continued churning in your
stomach.
Just as you were about to twist the cap off, a buzz
from your back pocket made you pause.
Pulling out your phone, you glanced at the screen,
your heart skipping a beat when you saw the sender: Boy Scout.
“We have a proposition for you. Conditions apply. Report to the compound tomorrow if you’re in.”
Your breath caught, heart hammering in your chest as
you read Steve’s text again.
“Everything okay?” Jemma asked, noticing your
momentary distraction.
You hesitated, glancing around at the team, their
faces tired but genuinely relieved as they leaned into the camaraderie of the
moment.
“Never better, actually.”
And while flying your high of saving the team from
certain death, you typed out the only answer there was…
“I’m in.”
Thank you so much for reading! 🙏 Your support means the world to me, so if you enjoyed this chapter, please show some love by liking the video and leaving a comment with your thoughts… 🎥💖
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