So, I thought I'd give the Avengers a go. Like it? Hate it? Let me know how it sounds. I have some plot points already, but nothing is actually concrete. Might take a little bit to get me updating, though. I haven't written these guys in a while.
Also? Henley (OC) uses some language, so. . . Warnings on that. Otherwise, nothing else at the moment.
-Oh, right. I do plan on writing romance into this, too. I'm almost set on OC/Cap, but OC/Barton might also come into play. .. Which is actually amusing, since the characters I like most are Stark and Banner. . . Heh. Nevermind. You guys have any input on the love issue? Let me know about that, too. I'll take everything into consideration.
Anyways. . .
Disclaimer: I own Henley, Sloane, and the Machine[s]. Not the Avengers
Entry #0. Thunderstruck.
It tumbles down, down, down through the clouds in glinting silver blurs. You might look up, but you won't see anything, not amidst the black skies or the lightning strikes ripping apart the empty wastelands. Even when it crashes to the sands, leaving a smoking impact crater with strange, greenish sparks spitting into the night, you hear thunder roaring but nothing else. You sense the earth shaking, but. . .tremors are common here across the military perimeter.
No one cares. No one suspects. No one. . .
Inside the hour, black vehicles arrive onto the scene. It crouches inside the crater, clicking its gears, waiting. Greenish lenses retract in consideration as the soldiers approach with readying weapons. It takes less than ten seconds to gather the statistics while it waits.
Names. Ranks. Numbers. Data streams through its expanding networks. It clicks again, downloading collective notes on. . .anything. Everything. About this planet, these creatures. It even begins assembling some basic translator system to grasp their thick, harsh language. . .when the shots ring out.
Humans act with hostile intentions. It automatically assumes its counteractive stance, clutching at the strange, metalliac pieces in its claws. Soldiers resort to. . .unknown actions. It pulls the trigger on its blackisk metals, bursting out vicious, blinding clusters that blow out like shattering glass. Solderis scream. Soldiers die.
It shoots back with these metals to protect its hardware unit, not comprehending their bizarre military tactics. Unless, they aim to capture, not disable, which is going to hinder its progress on a massive scale. . .
Within nanoseconds, it weighs its percentages. Capture may be necessary. Soldiers will take this unit to a secure block to conduct research. . .where main intelligence systems will be available. It can locate the specimen easier on their government equipment. . .as these humans might not be as primitive as initially thought.
So, it lowers its weapons in the same instant that an immense electromagnetic pulse sweeps through the crater. It quickly deactivates its own network, making its unit appear. . .unconscious, in human terms. But, it stays awake, stays silently aware, as the soldiers creep closer to investigate.
It needs to locate the specimen. It needs to be taken back to the Consensus.
Entry #1. Static Discharge.
His name is Sunday. It says so on his badge. Again, he writes something down in his little notebook. Again, he looks like he might have to resist heaving this huge sigh. Lights are blinking everywhere, bluish, reddish, bouncing against the glass that litters the pavement like broken stars. Everyone on the streets is watching us.
It kinda sucks.
"Okay. One more time, please." He stresses his words too much. Like he has a headache. I really want to take that little notebook and slap him with it. Maybe, it might distract him long enough to let me escape. . .
Or, maybe, it might get me a night in prison. Yeah. Do I have another plan? Well, not with all these witnesses.
He does sigh, this time. "Ma'am? Miss Henley?" He prompts again. "Please, your cooperation. . ."
"I am cooperating." I try not to snap back. "Seriously, you think I meant to do this?" I wave my arms in some vague direction, since the smoke is sorta everywhere. Plus, the sirens. More trucks are piling into the campus as the blaze rages on. I think I saw Fox News somewhere in this mess, too.
Shit. It's like a circus show. I hate the damn circus.
"Calm down, Miss Henley." Sunday instructs in that slow, annoying manner he has. "I only want to help you. Now, what were you doing in the labs?"
I give a violent twitch. "What are students usually doing in the labs?" I grit through clenching teeth. Really. Do I have to spell it out? How is this even happening? Someone upstairs hates me. . .
Sunday waits, narrowing his gaze in obvious displeasure. His pen hovers motionless above his notebook. I want to smash it straight into his neck.
"I was studying." I repeat, copying his agonizing speech pattern. "Sometimes, Dr. Watts gets new supplies in. He lets me test them. Whoever sent that previous order got something horribly wrong, as you can see." I gesture towards the burnt destruction that was once the Science Hall.
It hits me harder than I thought. Honestly, I almost choke up when I glimpse the remnants through the smoke. It. . .was practically my other home. Actually, I spent more time in the labs than at my true house. Is that pathetic? Probably, a little. I don't even care.
"Clearly, those chems weren't in the right packets. So, when I went to create a simple mixture. . ." I clear my throat, quickly looking away. "Well, yeah." I mutter. "You know the rest, apparently."
He makes another note in his book. Does he really have to write everything down? I mean, I spoke to three other badges earlier. I'm not some terrorist. I don't want to hurt anyone. . .much. Except, maybe Sunday. But I don't think that was the point. . .
Anyways. I shove my hands into my hoodie pockets, even though the bandages make it a bitch to try. Paramedics say that my palms were the worst, since the toxic substance ate straight through the test tubes I was using. Seriously. It was like a parasite. I've never seen anything like it.
It hurts, too. A lot. Pills help, though my hands keep throbbing no matter where I put them. I think it ate through a couple layers in my skin, too. Not deep enough to lose bone matter, but still deep enough to bake some wires. Scars, I bet. I'll have them covering my palms when they eventually get better.
In the mean time. . . I hang my chin, moping. I'm not gonna be able to do anything. Not work. Not college. Not experiments. Not even video games, not with these damn plasters on. Fuck.
I bow my shoulders in sudden, miserable exhaustion. Sunday might have been talking again. Whatever. "Hey, um. May I leave?" I interrupt with a sigh. "I have to. . .go." I turn away, because it doesn't matter. I don't want to hear his voice anymore.
Great. Fox News is storming the barricades, now. I take the distraction as the escape route I was hoping to have, then melt into the growing crowds without a single glance back.
It takes ten sluggish minutes to reach my car, when I swear I was only about two minutes out. When I get to the space, I stare through the windows at the ignition, where the keys are still hanging. Not that I can drive, either, but. . . Really. How did I manage to lock them inside?
I hate this. So much.
Fighting with my pockets, I slump against the passenger tire, lower, lower, where no one can see me. When I eventually manage to wrestle my phone out. . . I only stare down at it with a blank expression. Because, I can't even press the damn buttons.
Sloane will have to turn on the television eventually. Right? Maybe, he might think to get me when he notices my picture on the news.
"Miss?"
I glance up, squinting angrily at the latest person blocking out the sunlight. Who the hell is it, now? More badges? I'm gonna start hurting people, soon.
"Are you assholes stalking me?" I grumble. "I'm done answering lame questions. Leave me to wallow in my misery alone." But, as the moments pass. . . I realize that this man isn't an ordinary badge.
First? He wears this sharp black suit. Plus, his straight stance, his arrogant expression, his shiny black shoes. . . Everything about him screams government. Not awesome. Not in the slightest. He wears these dark sunglasses, too. Like he needs to look as much like a dick as possible.
"No can do, kiddo. Sorry." He smirks. His teeth are white, straight. In the sunshine, they wink like pearls. "We're not. . .really stalking you." He takes a deliberate pause. "More like keeping a close eye on."
I blink. "Excuse me, buddy?" I deadpan.
He doesn't. . . He can't know. . . I swallow uneasily. Can he? No, no. No one knows anything. Even the paramedics, they didn't get close enough to see. I didn't let them see. . .
Regardless, the man ignores my attitude. "Henley, right? Okay, listen up, Lee." He clears his throat dramatically. "I'm Agent Barton with. . ." He pulls out some business cards, like he might be about to give a speech. Seconds pass. He glances at them, then glances at me over those sunglasses.
"Aw, screw it." He tears the cards up, tosses the scraps over his shoulder. "I'm Clint Barton. You gotta come with me, kiddo. SHIELD has to talk to ya."
Um, sure. He might be a little unorthodox. . .or crazy. But, I'm not going anywhere with anyone. Especially with anyone government. So, I struggle to get up, wondering how I can lose him in this parking lot. He looks like he can move pretty quickly when he wants to. . .
"Yeah. . . I'm gonna take a rain check on that, Agent Barton." I edge backwards, towards the sidewalk. He observes my every movement like a damn hawk, even with those glasses on.
I am. . .probably going to die. Shit.
"Nice to know that the government is watching me, though. Really appreciate the concern you guys have." I give a nervous chuckle, waving my plasters. "So, right. I'm gonna. . ."
I don't bother to tell him goodbye. Cars honk as I bolt out into the street. He might be calling me, but I don't look back. I swerve through the oncoming lanes, heart choking up somewhere in my throat like sandpaper chunks. It can't. . . I mean, I thought this was a nightmare to begin with. . .
Fuck. I keep running, even when the campus shrinks into the distance. My legs ache. My chest burns. I actually want to die by this point, but. . . I keep going. Are they going to be at my house, too? What about Sloane? Oh, shit. Sloane doesn't know anything. I can't let them hurt him to get to me. I won't.
Everything is swimming. Really, I'm gonna throw up, then pass out. Somehow. . . I make it into a taxi without doing either. My hands might be about to break apart, though. Meds usually make me sick to my stomach, but there was no way not to take them earlier. It hurts too much. It still hurts too much. . .
Ten minutes, ten hours. . . However many years later, I shove some cash at the driver, then stumble out onto my lawn with these thick, electric currents zipping through my body. My hands, especially. I can see the plasters beginning to smoke as my panic skyrockets, because. . .hey, Agent Barton is standing on my steps.
What. The. Fuck.
"We can do this the easy way, kiddo." He spreads his arms to his sides. "All my boss wants to do is talk to you. Promise. No one has to get hurt."
I gasp out, trying to think. . .trying to stay calm. He knows where I live. . . What else does he know? Oh, no. Please, no. . . Not here. Not now! I drop to my knees as the pressure builds, like a balloon, about to pop. Inside my ears. Inside my head. I clench my hands tight enough to make the pinkish wounds open anew, plasters melting into the grass with reddish streams.
It's never been like this. . .not like this.
Barton might be sprinting over. Everything is. . .green. Numbers. Currents. Across my eyes. Everywhere. Slams against my brain like raging ocean waves. I'm choking, spitting up wet heat as strong hands grab my arms. Tastes like rust, like gasoline. Fuck. I can't even breathe.
Seriously, I'm crashing over the edge. Static crackles amidst other sounds, drowning out the city in a white noise rush. I'm tumbling down, down, down into that green abyss, clinging to this man like he might be the single tether keeping me planetside.
Maybe, he is. Maybe. . .he wants to help. I don't know. I don't care anymore. I have to get to Sloane. . . I have to. . .stay awake.
It doesn't work. Barton grips my chin, tries to get me to look at him, to keep me speaking. I can't, though. I can't do it. I don't notice anything else but his blue eyes in the darkness when it swallows me whole.
I'm sorry, Sloane. Shit, I'm so sorry. . .
