Chapter 15: Avengers Missions For Dummies
The briefing room felt larger than you’d expected.
You'd passed it countless times, always wondering what secrets and strategies
took shape within its walls. Now, standing here as an active participant rather
than a curious observer, you realised that imagination had made it smaller,
more manageable. Reality was vastly more intimidating, especially with just the
three of you present. You’d think a smaller mission like this would make it
easier for you to transition from simulation to live mission, but it wasn’t. It
felt more intimate. More scrutiny. Greater chance of messing up, and an even
greater chance of it being noticed.
And then there was Steve's military posture... Which should have added to the
room's intimidation factor, but somehow had the opposite effect. You weren’t
sure when or how that had happened, but suddenly, his rigid stance become
something that made your chest tighten with an entirely different kind of
tension. He caught your eye as he activated the display, and that brief moment
of warmth felt like a lifeline in the ocean of your anxiety. You noticed how he
positioned himself. Not quite between you and Natasha, but close enough to
intervene if needed. Always the peacekeeper, even in the smallest of missions.
"The target is a mobile satellite launch
platform," he began, clicking through to a new slide. "They were
sending up their last payload when pirates took control sixty-three minutes
ago."
"Any demands?" Nat asked.
"A billion and a half."
"Why so steep?"
"Because it's MutaTech's."
Your hand froze mid-note, pen hovering above the
datapad as something cold and heavy settled in your stomach. "Wait, I’m
sorry… Did you just say MutaTech?" The words escaped before you could stop
them.
Steve's eyes found yours, curious and just a little
too perceptive. "Yeah. Why? Familiar?"
"N-no, just..." You forced your attention
back to the datapad, grateful for something to focus on besides the sudden
roaring in your ears. "Read about the founder recently."
The quick glance between Steve and Natasha didn't
escape your notice—another mystery to add to the growing collection between you
all. Steve cleared his throat and pulled up the platform's schematics, but you
were only half-listening as he detailed the mercenary count and their
capabilities.
“Intel puts the merc count at twenty-five. Top-tier,
well-funded. We’re not dealing with amateurs here."
“Any hostages?”
“Mostly techs. They've been corralled into the control room, but so far, no
casualties."
Your head snapped up from the datapad. "And the
payload? Do we know what's in it?"
Steve's expression darkened. "Classified. But
if these mercs are asking for that much, we can guess it's either cutting-edge
or catastrophic. Either way, we're getting it back."
"Sounds fun," Natasha drawled, but there
was something in her tone that made you wonder if she'd caught the edge in your
voice, the way your fingers had tightened around your pen at the mention of
MutaTech.
"Y/N will be our eyes and ears through
OmniSight," Steve continued. You felt Natasha shift almost imperceptibly
in her chair. "Running point on surveillance, tactical analysis, and
electronic warfare. Everything feeds through you first."
The responsibility settled around your shoulders
like a cloak. Heavy, but not totally unwelcome. At least you had a purpose
here. You'd spent countless nights preparing for this, running scenarios until
your dreams were filled with tactical overlays and threat assessments. But
preparation was one thing; reality, with its messy human elements and
unpredictable variables, was another entirely.
"Questions?" Steve's gaze moved between
you and Natasha, acknowledging the unspoken tension without giving it power.
You had dozens, actually. Like why Natasha had
agreed to this mission despite her obvious reservations. Like whether the trust
you'd earned through the Bus incident could withstand whatever she had against
you, or how you were supposed to be the team's eyes when you could barely meet
her gaze.
Instead, you found yourself asking, "What about
the platform's defences? Any systems we can use to our advantage?"
"Most of it's offline. Pirates disabled
everything remotely, but it's possible they left behind traces."
Natasha's silence was deafening. But you'd learnt to
read her absence of reaction as its own form of communication. Each withheld
word carried layered meanings like Russian nesting dolls. Apt, given her
heritage. The memory of your last interaction hung between you, delicate as
spider silk yet just as tough.
But there was work to be done, a mission to
complete, trust to be earned. You had been many things in this compound—a
mystery, a potential threat, a surprise hero. Now you were something new. A
bridge between human intuition and technological precision, tasked with keeping
safe the very people who might not fully trust you.
"Wheels up in ten," Steve announced. "Romanoff,
let's move."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * *
The Quinjet's roaring rumble resonated through the
compound's new Tactical Ops Centre. Your domain now. The sound should
have been familiar by now, almost comforting. How many times had you watched
the team depart from your safe cot in the lab? But now, seated before a
three-way array of high-resolution displays in your little arcade-like setup, and
the weight of the team's safety resting squarely on your shoulders, that same rumble
felt like the countdown to doomsday.
Your fingers hovered over the controls, going ahead
of the team to inspect the ship from live satellite feeds, drone visuals, and
tactical maps relayed from OmniSight. The drone visuals painted everything in
crisp detail, even at night, sending a wave of reality crashing over you. This
was no simulation. This was real life with real lives on the line.
At an impressive hypersonic velocity of 3,836 mph,
it only took the team two hours to reach their destination. Two hours that felt
like an eternity and a heartbeat all at once. You'd spent those hours
alternating between hyper-focused scanning and moments of acute self-doubt.
"Alright, Y/N. You're up." Steve’s voice
transmitted with clarity, the product of Stark Industries' quantum-encrypted
communications array. "Hostiles out on deck... What do you see?"
You swallowed hard, your throat practically
constricted with anxiety. Yesterday's simulation exercises had included direct
oversight: Bruce’s theoretical frameworks, Tony’s technological intuition, Sam
and Clint’s comedic relief, Steve’s strategic guidance. Now, with miles of
empty air between you, the mission felt impossible.
"Okay, give me a sec," you managed, masking
internal turbulence. "Pulling up sat visuals now..."
The displays activated in synchronised cascade, each
screen populating with layered intelligence feeds: behavioural analytics,
biometric profiles, and predictive modelling algorithms refined through decades
of S.H.I.E.L.D. operational data.
"Looks like... four hostiles patrolling the
upper deck," you reported, slowly finding strength in the technical details.
"Two on starboard side, near the bow, and two near the stern. They're
armed, semi-automatic rifles. Movement is staggered, but their routes overlap
every thirty seconds. You’ll need to time your approach."
The tactical overlay system rendered patrol routes
in crimson vectors, creating patterns eerily similar to the mutated
cardiovascular systems documented in Leekie's controversial research. The
parallel seemed fitting, given that the vessel belonged to MutaTech.
"Sounds straightforward enough. Anything else I
should know?" Steve’s voice remained calm and confident. As if he was already
processing multiple contingencies, analysing potential outcomes with the
efficiency born from decades of field experience. This was one guy who very
clearly did not need Stark’s cleverly-designed software.
“Yeah. There’s a security camera mounted above the
bridge. Rotates every ten seconds. You’ll need to avoid that, or you’re gonna
have company fast.”
"She knows you've done this before, right? This
is her first mission, not yours?"
Natasha's transmission carried the same edge you'd
grown accustomed to over the past few months. That subtle inflection. It was
the same tone she'd used during your conversation in the library.
"Play nice," Steve chided, but you could
hear the smile in his voice, a deeper understanding of the team’s new
precarious dynamics. "How else is she gonna learn?"
Just then, OmniSight’s predictive algorithm
highlighted Steve’s intended exit trajectory, confirming what mission profiles
had documented repeatedly:
Predictive Alert: High Probability Action Detected
Subject: Captain Steve Rogers
Action: Unassisted Leap from Bay Door (No Parachute)
Probability: 94%
Projected Outcome: Safe landing with minor impact force.
Recommendation: Monitor trajectory and provide situational
support.
Along with the visual display came the audio alert
in your earpiece.
“Predictive Analysis. Captain Rogers is likely to
exit the aircraft without a parachute. Estimated probability, ninety-four
percent. Recommend trajectory monitoring and environmental updates.”
As if on cue, you watched him advance toward the
back of the Quinjet. Your breathing stuttered. Not in a swooning way some might
expect, but born out of admiration. Well, that’s what you told yourself, at
least.
And then he was gone, executing the free-fall
exactly as OmniSight's behavioural modelling had predicted, his trajectory
describing a perfect arc through the night air. Captain America, turning
gravity into a suggestion rather than a law.
Your heart lurched into your throat as the monitors
tracked his descent, panic clawing at your insides. This was not something
you’d ever get used to. That much was evident. You held your breath until the
moment Steve broke the surface. Only then did you allow yourself to exhale,
sinking back into your chair.
"You don't have to track him every second, you
know," Natasha's voice filtered through your earpiece. Zero attempt at
hiding or even suppressing her irritation. "Steve's been doing this since
before you were born." The statement served as both tactical observation
and carefully engineered reminder of hierarchical experience. You knew it as
well as she did.
Be it embarrassment, be it anxiety, the heat you
felt creeping up your neck flushed your cheeks and rang through your ears. For
a split second, all three of your monitors flickered.
"That... may be true," you managed, the
Stark Industries high-tech mouse creaking beneath your force, "but if
anything goes wrong, I need to know where he is so I can help."
The admission felt too much like exposure. As if Nat
just peeled back a layer of armour to reveal your soft vulnerability; you
didn’t care much for it.
Through OmniSight’s crystal-clear feed, you watched
Steve hoist himself up alongside the ship, the rope barely swaying under his
weight. The product of years of experience, just as Natasha had so graciously
pointed out.
"You're clear for now," you murmured into
the headset, pushing aside the lingering sting of Nat's words. "But one of
the guards near the stern just changed his route. He's heading in your direction,
five meters to your right."
Your heart performed its own tactical gymnastics, treading
a line between professional distance and personal investment.
"I see him. Thanks," Steve whispered back,
his confidence somehow soothing Natasha's constant scepticism.
You watched him neutralise the guard with ease, the
movement so fluid it looked like a beautifully choreographed piece.
"Next patrol will pass the central cargo area
in fifteen seconds. You'll want to stay low."
Between heartbeats and breath, you realised that Natasha
was right. Steve had been doing this since before you were born. But that
didn't change the fact that right now, in this moment, your eyes were the ones
watching his back. And you'd do that job perfectly, whether she approved or
not.
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 or leaving a comment with your thoughts… 🎥💖
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