Welcome all to another fanfic by yours truly, Raven T! I'm extremely and unabashedly proud of this, as the Avengers are a major obsession of mine, and I feel I've done my best in owning up to their characters while introducing a new one.
Yes, you've guessed it, I'm putting an OC in here. Before you run screaming, know that I've taken great consideration in adding complexity and a level of reality to her, so she's not some omniscient, all-powerful Mary Sue. Not that I'm dissing Mary Sue's, 'cause Lord knows we all need a dose of "I'M SUPER FANTASTICALLY AWESOME AND LOVED BY ALL!" in our lives some days. And can you blame people for making them? Like you've never written/thought of something along the same lines.
Ah, I'm driving down tangent land now. Digressing. I had some trouble coming up with, well, almost everything, but after a liberating jam-session with my headphones and Thousand Foot Krutch's latest album, "The End Is Where We Begin," I worked through my writing blockage and into a metaphorical gold mine. That sounded a little to Minecraft for me right now, as I'm currently battling my Xbox 360 addiction.
So, alas, my long intro comes to an end. In conclusion, my story is epic, has amazing plot, and a brand-new, non-Mary Sue/self-insert character that rocks peoples' socks off. Enjoy.
P.S. In the fight scene in the alley (Oh yea, be excited), the pace is supposed to be set to the tempo of Thousand Foot Krutch's song "War of Change" from the lyrics "…is it true what they say?" to "…come with me!" So, if you want a better understanding, you might wanna look it up. Just some advice. Plus, the song rocks. Like, literally, rocks fall from the ceiling. They hurt, but its so worth it. ;P
P.P.S Did you know "P.S." means "post script"? That would make this the post-post script. Ha ha. Goodness, I need a nap.
P.P.P.S. This is completely un-beta-ed, so all mistakes and literary mishaps are mine and mine alone. Then again, if my sentence articulation is to your liking, I can also claim it as mine and mine alone. So. Yea.
Disclaimer: …what, like you don't get it by now? Everyone on this site owns nothing except their ideas/concepts and their OC's. Seriously, even the name of the site explains this: "Fan" and "Fiction," pressed together into one word that, for some reason, never shows up when posted on said site and smushed together. Aw, the site's bashful. Tangent. Right. I DON'T OWN ANYTHING BESIDES MY IDEAS AND OC'S!
B U R N
Raven T.
Prologue:
(Year 2008)
The October night sky was adorned in glittering gems; the blackness devoured the heavens like spilled ink on pale parchment. The crescent moon above seemed to grin like the Cheshire cat, all teeth and mischief. Alley cats clambered through fallen trash cans, rummaging through foul smelling entrails and moldy bags. The crisp London air chilled bone. Hisses and screeching yowls of brawling felines echoed throughout the otherwise still night.
Leaning against a grime-coated, foul-smelling dumpster, a shadowed figure watched the slowly dying embers in a discarded cigarette by the mouth of the alleyway, faint smoke still curling in the pale moonlight. A scuffed boot toe ground it out on the unforgiving pavement.
Muffled laughter from too-happy drunks sounded round the corner. The figure swiveled quicker than light reflecting on a spun dime, head cocked like an animal. Shuffling footsteps and boisterously shushed giggles greeted hidden ears, and the mysterious figure fled past darkened nooks and shadowed crannies, willing itself to remain undiscovered.
Eyes black as night darted about, focusing on seemingly random objects. Booze dripping into a puddle by a dumpster from a cracked bottle; a battered, half-empty lighter sitting precariously on a windowsill; someone's laundry dipping low on a fraying wire; a fire escape with a busted ladder. Metal ridden ears picked up on the fact that two, near-silent vehicles were parked nearby, engine still running with a wild feline's purr.
A black cat dashed by, the figure's left foot crushing its tail. A baleful hiss and menacingly sharp paw swipe left the figure unfazed, still as a statue, ears straining in the silence. Two engines roared to life, tires screeching, destination evident. The feline raced away, leaving the figure cursing under its breath.
A black sedan swerved to a stop at the opening of the alleyway, another to the figure's back, blocking all exits. Backing up slightly, coal eyes searched fruitlessly for an exit before zeroing in on the four smartly dressed men exiting the sleek, government-issue vans. One of them walked further than the others, still a good twelve feet away from the stock-still, shadowed figure. Average height, unassuming brown hair and grey suit, bland looks; unnoticeable. His American accent was alien to the figure's ears, his voice flat and robotically unemotional in its deep bass.
"Ms. Harbinger, we'd like to have a word with you. Please enter the vehicle."
A chap-lipped smirk.
"Bullocks. If you wanted to 'ave a chat, we'd be sipping tea in a café somewhere. Not 'ere, in the middle of an alleyway, 'aving a Mexican standoff. Sorry, love, but I'm not buying it." Her voice caught in odd places, as if scratched by sandpaper.
The figure stepped into the moonlight, revealing a fatigued trench coat, worn combat boots, a soot smudged face, and stringy, brown hair laden with oil. The woman, for her feminine facial structure was obvious when well lit, had a definite British accent; a native. Though the crude twist to her lips faked playfulness, her eyes, hard as flint and sharp as daggers, were solemn.
The stony man's face held no emotion. "Ms. Harbinger, I assure you we're only here to talk. We have a proposition for you. One you'd be a fool to disregard."
Brows narrowed at the barb, but she otherwise ignored his words. Like ice cubes, they were, cold and unfeeling, but slid right off her back within a few uncomfortable moments. She focused on the other man, watched as his fingers twitched towards his gun.
The first suit-clad man spoke again, finally emoting a faint irritation from the wrinkle in his brow and the set of his lips. "I'm Jack Morrison, an agent with the United States government. The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, to be precise."
She stiffened, hands clenching. "You're a suit? And not even one from my government?"
He seemed to find amusement in her expression, whatever it was, but hid it behind a wall of ice. "Yes. We've recently taken to calling ourselves SHIELD."
She snorted crassly through her nose. "Yes, and I imagine you're partners with agencies 'SWORD' and 'MACE' as well."
Ignoring the snide comment, Morrison's voice remained patient. "And we need you, Jennifer Harbinger, to come with us. Now."
Eyeing the man, Morrison, with a disdainful glare, Jennifer surveyed the surroundings once again. Fisted hands loosened at her sides, and her stare bore figurative holes into Agent Morrison's person.
"And you know I'm not going. Trust me, Agent Jack Morrison," her tone spat poison, "I've been in this situation before. Different names, different races; doesn't matter. You've all got the same intention, the same conclusion in your 'eads. The way you get it may differ, and the reasons change, but it's all the same."
Onyx eyes flickered around the ring of agents; one reached back and grabbed his weapon.
"I've been nice so far, but don't test me; I can get wicked." She chuckled humorlessly, eyes grave.
The trigger-happy man who'd been sizing her up throughout their tense discussion took that as some sort of immediate threat, apparently, because he'd discharged two shots the second the words left her lips. One whizzed past her ear, the other grazing her left, leather-clad shoulder.
Her eyes widened in disbelief, a brief sting noticed and tossed aside before a cruel smirk curled the edges of her mouth. Now she had the excuse of self-defense. Agent Morrison seemed to notice this, too, because he clenched his eyes shut and let out a frustrated breath.
Another officer, releasing his mind to blind reflexes and brute strength, lunged forward. Harbinger side-stepped, chopping her hand to the back of his neck, effectively dropping him to the dirt. The man with a penchant for premature weapon discharges ran up to her right, as another raced to her left. Bringing her right forearm to block a punch, she lifted her left leg to kick her assailant in the gut. He doubled over, and she used her upwards momentum to flip backwards, clipping her other attacker in the shoulder with the heel of her right foot. As he went down, she delivered a round-house kick to the temple, before swiveling and stomping on the gut-punched man's gun-wielding hand. He gave a pained yelp, and Jennifer noticed with begrudging respect as the two downed men were already raising from the ground.
Before another gun could be drawn, or fired, Jennifer closed her eyes and willed herself to focus. There was a clatter as she snapped her fingers, then silence. In a matter of seconds, the sounds of popping and crackling filled the alley.
The booze bottle from before was on fire; the lighter that had been perched precariously on a nearby windowsill floated lazily in the orange lit pool.
The four operatives turned to stare, and that gave Jennifer the opportunity she needed. Turning on a dime, she dug steel-toed boots into the debris filled street and took off. Four pairs of disbelieving eyes stared after her, before the sound of shuffling clicks, muffled curses, heavy pants and rustling fabric resounded against the red bricked walls.
Jennifer raced towards the broken fire escape, jumping at just the right moment to grab a skewed bar. With a guttural grunt, she hefted herself up onto the landing, clambering up the busted steps in a flurry. From the snarled groans below, her pursuers were having some difficulty but would be up in a matter of minutes. She snapped her fingers again, still running.
Tendrils of flame from the puddle curled at an abnormal rate, reaching higher and higher into the cold, night air. The raging pyre raced forward and gripped Jennifer's jean clad calves. But instead of harming her, they circled languidly about her heels, pushing her up and above the roof top buildings. As the shell-shocked agents finally drew their guns and tried to take aim, a seemingly harmless clothesline fell from above, completely aflame and spitting embers onto the operatives below.
She watched from above, hair thrashing and fire crashing, as the cursing agents stomped the clothes line out. Turning away, she flew up.
Slicing through the air like a warm knife through butter and trailing a tail like a shooting star, Jennifer's eyes darkened and a sick smirk sullied her soot stained lips. Four pairs of eyes, bodies littered with superficial burns and suits smoking slightly, gazed at her back.
Morrison kicked a nearby rock, smashing an already cracked window. Raking a hand through his hair and letting out a hissing sigh through his clenched teeth and nose, the fuming agent stalked back to the car.
She'd gotten away. The first time they'd even come close to her, close enough to touch her, and he, Jack Morrison, had let her slip away. Silent curses slid sourly over his tongue, fists clenched at his sides as he entered the vehicle.
"Fury's gonna have my -"
And the door slammed shut.
Chapter One:
(Year 2012)
The coffee shop stood alone at the corner of don't know and don't care. It served anyone and everyone, unbiased. In turn, all patrons respected the tranquility of the space. The building was small, squat, and neutral; in both its color and air.
She couldn't explain what drew her to this place. Maybe it was the quiet, open space; the soft sound of pages being turned; the deep sense of calm radiating throughout the establishment; the sharp tang of coffee permeating the air; the collective agreement to enjoy and revel in harmony.
Or, maybe, it was the way she could pretend, for just a moment, that she was normal.
Jennifer Harbinger shook her head to clear her thoughts, leaning into the palm of her hand. She sat at an inconspicuous seat in the corner; bright sunlight kissing her closed eyelids and trailing soft fingers along the planes of her face. Her body warmed pleasantly in the comforting glow, the first peaceful smile in a long while gracing her lips.
She watched from the corner of her eye as mutants conversed. It was easy to spot if one knew what to look for: eyes flicker from circular human to narrow cat, the tip of a tail pokes out lazily from the confines of a raincoat, the flash of razor sharp teeth quickly hidden from view. Jennifer was amazed how they could hide in the public eye, as this was the only establishment she could feel relatively safe in. Sure, her powers hadn't manifested physically, like some others, but to control her powers…. Her clothes were chosen at random, stolen from townsfolk who still left their laundry to dry outside, and not at all acceptable for "normal" people. This was one of her only tastes of society and normalcy she could get in her life, now.
The road map under her fingertips drew her reluctant attention, and she made absent notes along random trails. Crossing out another state, Jennifer eyed the United States map critically, running through a list in her head.
New Mexico?
No, still too hot; there was some sort of undercover fiasco there recently. It'll be under some sort of observation.
New York?
And run into Iron Man? If New Mexico was hot, then New York City is radiating nuclear waste.
Texas?
…Could work since Karen's there, but I'll have to keep low-key. Don't want a repeat of the Possum Kingdom forest fires…
Oh, Karen. Jennifer's one and only contact in the United States, not to mention only friend. A shy girl, with loving parents and a beneficial gift, who couldn't, to pawn an overused idiom, harm a fly. Little Karen, who's first syllable described her whole being: "Care." Karen would house her for a while, at least until Jennifer could find another suitable sewer to slip into. Besides, a home, one with a working bathroom and actual bed, would be a very nice change of pace.
With a sigh, she circled the panhandle state with finality. Destination set, she folded up the map and slid it easily into her raggedy shoulder bag, one snatched up at her last pick through an alleyway dumpster. Gripping her steaming cup in one hand, Jennifer turned back to face the sun. So lost was she in her myriad of thoughts, she failed to notice the sudden, stark silence that spread around her. She did, however, catch the scratch of wood on tile sounding just from her left, and the soft scuff of folding cloth.
A voice - frosty, but pleasant enough, with a rigid superiority - spoke from the once vacant seat.
"Ms. Harbinger?"
She let her eyes wander over the man; his three-piece suit and glossy shades reminding her vividly of Men in Black. The man had short trimmed hair and a plastic smile; the way he carried himself spoke of confidence and authority. She couldn't decide whether it was military or bureaucratic in nature. Perhaps both.
She took in the now empty room around her, brows narrowing at the smartly dressed men guarding the exits. Jennifer rested her chin on the back of her hand, answering in a convincing American accent.
"I'm going to assume you know the answer to your question."
He was absent of tells, still regarding her with a cool calculation.
"I'm Agent Phil Coulson with SHIELD."
Klaxons were screaming in her head; she cursed herself for showing surprise, quickly clamping on the emotion. She could read the pleased twinkle in his eye, though his face remained passive.
"SHIELD. So, that's a real organization?" A smirk curled her lips, dark eyes unreadable.
"Yes. I understand you had a less than agreeable first meeting with a previously employed agent of ours."
She tried not to smile at the faded memory of Jack Morrison turning red with frustration. Coulson swung a suitcase onto the table, careful of her cup. She made no move to acknowledge his claims, instead watching him with a hawk-like intensity. Coulson slipped a manila file across the waxed mahogany towards her, where she cautiously opened it.
"Agent Morrison's mission was to locate, but not engage, you and report his findings. His team was dispatched with a clear understanding that you were to be monitored for a time before we sent another agent to intercept you. Unfortunately, he wanted the prestige of bringing you back, and chose to disobey direct orders. He 'jumped the gun.'"
Her gaze jerked from the file she'd been engrossed in to bore angry holes into the icy operative's head.
"Is that supposed to make me feel better? That instead of assaulting me, your intentions were to stalk me first, and then assault me?" She raised an eyebrow, more amused than irritated, now. "Because you're not doing too good of a job here."
Coulson looked oddly satisfied with Jennifer's reply, but ignored her question. "I'm here to ask you some questions, Ms. Harbinger."
Having resumed her perusing of the files, she absently corrected him without looking up, "Jenny, please. Name's too big a mouthful to keep repeating."
He ignored her again; she was beginning to see a pattern. "What Agent Morrison irresponsibly proposed to you four years ago was not yet operational, and was soon labeled obsolete."
Jennifer's brows scrunched together, confusion coloring her voice. "Okaaaaay. So, if whatever it is has been trashed, why am I reading about it?"
He leant farther back in his chair, folding his hands together on his lap. "I'm here to offer you the option of joining SHIELD's program. We're in need of your special talents."
She lifted a brow. "You're being a bit vague there, Phil. I'm thinking its intentional."
He continued as if she hadn't spoken, "I understand you have some outstanding debts with less than favorable people, and adding that to property damages from all over England, Italy, and now the United States, you're in need of a helping hand. We at SHIELD will be that helping hand. By joining this program, SHIELD will settle everything you owe to the appropriate people, no string attached."
Jennifer's onyx eyes narrowed, scoffing.
"I also understand you've been approached like this before by disagreeable sources. SHIELD will gladly keep these people away, as you'll be an invaluable asset, one whom we won't like to part."
She felt her traitorous face give away her shock, but couldn't muster up the energy to care. He could have no idea of how much that offer would mean to her; never needing to run away anymore, to remain stable. But at the same time, what would be the cost? She was about to enquire as to what the offer entailed on her part, but was interrupted by an electronic chime. She tried not to flinch at the sound. Remaining in hiding took a toll on social decorum and knowledge, and Jennifer still couldn't handle some modern oddities, cell phones included.
Coulson reached into his suit pocket and checked his phone, eyebrows creasing. Placing it back, he turned to the still sitting Jennifer.
"Excuse me, Ms. Harbinger, but I have urgent matters I must attend to. Please, read through the file and make a decision. We'll be in touch."
Coulson rose gracefully from his seat, easily snapping the briefcase closed; she watched him stride purposefully outside, the remaining guards filing out silently. Turning back to the file, she entertained the thought of going after them; wondered why she hadn't taken them out the moment he sat down. Wondered how they'd found her. She'd made sure to cover her tracks, to remain invisible, just like she'd always done. What changed?
And how could it change even more?
Closing her eyes and breathing out a sigh, Jennifer closed the manila folder. Scarred fingers raked through recently chopped locks.
I'm going to regret this, I just know it. She thought, resigned. Bringing her roadmap back onto the table, Jennifer crossed out Texas. She pulled the file closer, reading the operation's name out-loud.
"'Avenger's Initiative.'"
Avenger's? What could possibly need avenging that people would willingly enlist my help?
Review so I can get an idea on whether this story is a no, or a go for you all.
Sincerely, Raven T.
Edit 8-8-12 : Hey, just to let you all know that I went through and fixed a few things, but not much. Hope that made reading a little better, though, like I said, it was only some minor stuff.