A few months later, they make a cure for Mutants.
When Ana hears about it she loses it, much to the chagrin of Mac. The dock worker just wants to get some smothered hashbrowns after having to hang late at work. They got a shipment of cantaloupe in a truck with a broken refrigeration unit, and when she opened the doors, the reek of rotten fruit had washed out over her like a punch to the face. She still can't get it out of her nose.
"Cure the mutants," Ana spits bitterly, keeping her voice quiet in the din of the diner. She reaches over to pour more water into Mac's cup, despite not being called over. "Forget fucking cancer, or HIV. Cure something that isn't a life threatening disease."
"People with cancer, or HIV don't resist government actions against them," Mac grumbles into her spuds. At least, the people with the diseases listed don't actually have the power to defy said government action. The can get lawyers, but shoot laser beams from their face? Not so much.
Still, Ana's voice is tight when she speaks, and her hands have a white knuckled grip around Mac's cup. The smile that stretches across her face is nothing short of poisonous to those who know her, though to strangers, it might be pretty.
"Think of all the money," Ana hisses, her anger slick like oil. "Money to fund research, draft testing, do studies. The materials, equipment, the labs. Wasted for something that doesn't need to be cured most of the time. Something that isn't endemic with a mile high body count."
Mac doesn't speak, knowing that nothing she says will calm Ana's disgust. Nothing in the world seems to make that girl more passionate than perceived waste, and while Mac sympathizes, she doesn't feel much has changed.
Oh, she's pissed, to be sure. Not for the same callous reasons as Ana is spouting, but because mutants are marginalized and persecuted. Because when somebody brings up the topic, they seem to forget that mutants are just people. Most have to work long hours in shit jobs, just like her. Some can't hide what what they are, and they have to disappear, one way or another, for something they have no control over. Being prejudice against mutants doesn't need a special name, because it's prejudice, plain and simple. And Mac is real fucking tired of bigots in all the forms they take.
She flicks her eyes up to the television in the corner, where video shows riots have broken on on both sides. There are various factions protesting, and the screen occasionally flashes scenes filled with teargas and riots.
She turns her head out the window, and thinks of Hunt's Point. There's still all the same crime in it, still the same nine-to-five grind. Nothing really changed much, for her. She'll just do what she's always done, which is try not to die and make a stand where she can.
However, this diner, right now, isn't the time or place.
"It's fucked up," she comment, feeling like that's all she can do.
Ana bites the inside of her cheek, and huffs out a breath through her nose. Something lively and warm dies in her eyes, snuffed out by a myriad of thoughts she won't voice.
"Same old shit, different day," Ana agrees with a dead tone to her voice, placing the glass back down. She pivots cleanly on her heel, and goes to wait on the next table.
Mac watches her, scanning around the diner, knowing there isn't much she can do about it. Instead, she decides to distract herself. Statistically speaking, the diner probably serves one or two mutants each day, with the number of people that come in and out of here. She wonders if she can spot them.
Of course she can't really point them out. The only strange thing she sees is a lone man in a suit, his nose buried in a newspaper. He looks strangely out of place, and sort of familiar.
As if he can feel her staring, he turns to look at her. He's got a real plain face, and a receding hairline, complete with close cropped maybe blond, maybe brown hair. He's completely unremarkable, in the sort of 'I own a minivan, and my son does football' sort of way, which is at odds with the more dirty, hoodie and cargo pants working class look around here.
She narrows her eyes. The suit from the truck, still alive, and still wearing a suit.
What a goddamned idiot.
She snorts derisively into her tea. It's none of her damn business, really, but she can't help but stop Ana to talk again, under the guise of getting her check.
"What's with Suburban Dad?" Mac asks under her breath, feeling the need to hide her curiosity for some reason. Mutant politics, while a heated topic, doesn't quite seem as personal as this for some reason.
Ana glances around the diner from the corner of her eyes, ghosting over the only person that fits the description. Mac knows that she spotted him, but didn't let her eyes linger to avoid giving the game away.
"I don't know. Started coming here a month or two ago. Tips well, and surprisingly isn't dead yet," Ana says, her voice still empty, and her eyes dead.
"A month or two?" Mac encourages.
Ana sends her a limpid glance, somehow managing to make her smile look exactly the same. Really, those in the service industry are the ones that should win Oscars. Forget all the movie shit. If Mac didn't know her, she would never think that Ana was brimming with disgust and bitterness.
In the back of her mind, she remembers how things used to be. She's not usually nostalgic, but the times are rough, and for some reason memories jumble up in her mind when she'd rather they not. Maybe its the conversation Ana and her had a while back, or maybe it's the vibe hanging around the diner, but for a moment Mac is struck by de ja vu. The thin film of correctness when nothing is right, a sense of placid calm covering incredible violence. The sharp stink of woodsmoke, shouting that rings in her ears-
"A month or two. He likes to talk about the weather, and his eggs sunny side up," Ana says, her tone completely at odds with her expression, snapping Mac back to the present. "You gonna tell me why you want to know?"
Mac shakes the clinging memories and slides her eyes back to the man in the booth, who has gone back to his paper. He doesn't look like he's aware they're talking about him, but that doesn't mean shit. He could be one hundred percent aware of the scrutiny he's under. He could be could be waiting for acting just as much as Ana.
Or, maybe Mac is being paranoid. Maybe she's not in a good frame of mind. Maybe it's just some guy.
Still-
"At home," Mac says, giving in to her gut instincts. Ana hums out her acceptance calmly, waiting for her friend to finish up. The dock loader fishes the money out of her wallet, and slaps it on the table before she gets up.
"See you then," Ana promises, curiosity still shining in her eyes.
"Lookin' forward to it," Mac lies, breezing out the door and onto the packed streets. The warm, exhaust laden air helps ground her, as does the busy sidewalk. These aren't the cicada packed woods of their childhood romping grounds, but the great bustling stretches of concrete jungle instead. The protests aren't anywhere to be seen. She's safe here, or as safe as anyone can be in this day and age.
She scrubs her wrist across her eyes,noting that they feel scratchy and dry. She still needs to clean up the apartment when she gets home, though she'd much rather just fall asleep until her next shift. The bathroom, tiny thing that it is, is getting pretty filthy.
She's manages the sub ride home just fine, walking the rest of the way back. The walkup is mostly empty when she returns, save for their new neighbor. He glances her way, and their eyes meet as she digs for her keys.
There's blood on his cheek, and she's seen kinder expressions on starving feral dogs.
Neither of them speak as she slides the key in and opens her door. She nods just once, and he gives her a solemn nod back as she steps inside.
He's a creepy fuck, that man, but Mac can't say she minds much, especially when they haven't been robbed since he moved in.
"Wait, that's the guy?" Ana asks later that night, appalled by the explanation Mac has provided her.
Mac sighs, slumping back on the couch a bit more, shrugging her shoulders.
"I just wanted to get my work done," Mac grumbles out, looking at the flaking plaster wall behind her. It's mostly gone, and the two of them often talk about just clearing what little remains in order to either hang up new dry wall that isn't moldering, or wallpaper it, but they never seem to have the time.
Ana points a fork at her, a piece of liver still dangling off the end. Mac makes a face at the meat dangling so close to her, as she always does. Offal has never been to her tastes.
Personally, Ana loves the gamey taste of it. She grew up with dinner tables filled with game meat, and the change to the bland, often insipid store bought variety still bugs her. That's not even to mention the price of it. The average cost of a box of small gauge shotgun shells is around five dollars, with usually ten rounds, coming to just around fifty cents fer slug. A white tail deer can range from anywhere to ninety to one hundred and forty pound of edible meat when cleaned, a wild turkey anywhere from five to ten, and a migrating goose eight to thirteen. Even taking tags into consideration, the value can't be beat.
But the city isn't exactly the kind of place you can take down a goose in. The people in Central Park might get mighty upset at Ana if she tried to cut down overhead costs by snatching up the ducks there, and fishing near the loading bays is questionable at best.
However, none of this is here or there. She's gone off on a tangent in her head again, but Mac's issues really need to be addressed.
"You did it because you have a thing. A complex, if you will," Ana accuses without heat. Obviously the hero thing only extends to strangers because Mac had no qualms about setting Ana up on an outing with Miguel of all people, but hey, at least Mac paid Ana for it.
"I don't. I just wanted to get my job done," Mac protests.
Ana rolls her eyes, shoving the fork into her mouth. She chews it a few times before swallowing.
"Exactly. You wanted to get your job done. Who does that? I would have fucked right off," Ana says.
"Cage-"
"Luke Cage is a hardass, but not unreasonable. You could have explained. Instead, you stopped a man from getting mugged so you could do a job you don't get paid enough for, and satisfy a boss that will never be happy."
Mac opens to mouth to speak, then closes it again. Ana can tell she wants to protest, probably by saying something like 'Some of us can't just ignore work, Ana. We live in the real world' or something similar. Maybe something along the lines of 'You just don't get it.'
Ana isn't sure which. She could probably make a good guess, but she doesn't want to because she's tired, and she doesn't all that much care. About the exact reason Suburban Dad got saved, or Mac's half-hearted excuses that is. She kinda cares about Mac's predilection for good deeds under the guise of selfishness.
She takes another bite of her dinner.
"I think that you refuse to acknowledge your gross Hero Complex because then you might have to do something about it," she tells the short haired woman around a mouthful of food.
"Theoretically speaking, if I had a Hero Complex, it would be entirely balanced by your astounding lack of morality," Mac remarks. "Every day that goes by that you don't come home with ambiguously obtained cash is a win for me."
"Mac, please. We both know I lack the drive to become a criminal."
"You just refuse to settle, drama-queen."
"You're absolutely right. If I can't go big, I'm not gonna do it at all. I would never be so base as to become a common mugger."
Mac huffs, but the corners of her lips still pull up into a grin as she plays around with her own dinner, a heaping bowl of Mac n' Cheese. Something in Ana's chest rumbles happily at the action, and she is struck by how much she cares for her long time friend. The woman sitting across from her brings her such joy, and Ana still isn't tired of seeing her smile.
"If can't go big, you're not going to do it all, eh?" the other woman mumbles.
"Never mind, Mac. You're an awful person," Ana groans, slumping in her seat. She twirls her utensil in her hand for a moment before dropping it on her now empty plate. Her mind is reaching that dull, white-noise filled state that comes after a long shift and a full belly. She'll need to shower and get ready for bed soon, or she's just gonna drop at the kitchen table again.
Mac raises her hands defensively, facial features screwed into faux innocence.
"You said it first, I'm just commenting," the chestnut haired dock worker states.
"Straight to hell, that's where you're going."
"See you there then, cause the saints know your ass is gonna wind up dead first."
Ana rolls her eyes.
"Well, maybe I'll bring Suburban Dad with me, just so we can annoy you there as well," she grouses airily. "You know, cause he's so suspicious and what not."
Mac leans across the table to slug her, and Ana jerks just out of reach, simultaneously scooting her chair back to scramble away and stubbing her toe on the table leg. She curses under her breath, reaching down to grasp her foot, nearly banging her forehead on the table in the process.
"Karma," Mac crows, delighted. "Immediate retribution."
"Fuck your Karma," Ana replies.
"This happened because you're an irritating miser," Mac tells her haughtily from across the table. "This is what you get for pinching so many pennies and badmouthing me."
"That is a non sequitur statement, you dirty hoe. Two entirely unrelated subjects. This happened because you tried to punch me in the boob-"
"-I have never tit-jabbed you. You are the one that always does that," Mac corrects immediately.
Ana cannot deny that fact, but she still scrunches up her nose and rubs her toe. The ache is sharper where she massages it with her fingers, but for some reason, she still tries to soothe it in this fashion, despite it never working. The pain begins to recede a bit, and she rises back up, watching Mac warily. Another punch could be coming. Mac likes to be unpredictable.
Her flatmate raises an eyebrow, perhaps a bit mockingly.
"Shut up," Ana tells her, despite her silence.
Mac grins, and the rumbling in Ana's chest starts up again.
Phillip J. Coulson, extraordinarily enough, doesn't exactly lead a quiet life.
It's not really surprising, considering his occupation. Being an employee of a pseudo-world governmental system tends to come with an elevated level of excitement. It also tends to skew his view on what quiet really means. For example, lately quiet means that nobody is actively opening fire on his person, or the persons around him.
Intellectually, he knows this is not a good thing.
Handling agents, especially those that specialize in espionage, assassination, and most importantly, information, gives him a strange perspective on what normal is. That is to be expected, and his ability to understand perspectives remains one of his most useful assets, right alongside his ability to remain calm under almost any circumstance. However, lately he feels as if he's getting too out of touch, that his definitions and expectations are altering far too much. As much as he respects those who can always adjust, he also understands that to work for the best of all mankind, he has to comprehend that most of them do not share his definition of quiet. He needs to be more grounded in the troubles of the people he works for, and more knowledgeable about the way their lives go.
He had been going for a while without actually knowing how to put words to this feeling. The oddity of his job had become numbing there for a while. It wasn't until a few months ago, while investigating some rumors of vigilante activity in Hunt's Point of all places, that he was jolted to a realization by a humble dock loader.
When he was accosted by some mugger, he was perfectly confident that he could get his way out of the situation. It would have been simple to do, really. Only, he hadn't needed to, because a perfectly average citizen had stepped up to the plate. She wasn't a spy, likely had no training at all in coercion or diplomacy, but she had called off the assault nonetheless. Not because she was extraordinary, but because she understood. She knew the mugger, understood what motivated him, and non-violently navigated the situation towards a satisfying solution for both parties.
And that had been the wake up call, he now realizes. Those two people, the mugger and the dock loader, were normal, everyday workers, and they knew enough to come to a satisfying conclusion on their own for mutual benefit without escalation. It was so… so jarring. So unprecedented. Nobody had been shot, maimed, disfigured, or otherwise injured.
It was then he knew he had gotten out of touch, and because Phil was never one to just settle, he immediately set about fixing the issue. He would re-set his definition of quiet and normal back to a mutually understood base level that could be empathized with around the globe.
So it was, after a few discreetly following his mugger the next day, he discovered the diner. The perfectly normal, perfectly average, filled with everyday working populace, not-an-agent-in-sight, diner. Perhaps it was a little bit run down, ragged around the edges, and maybe the meat could get a little greasy, but that was fine. That was usual. As in, something everyone in the entire world could sympathize with.
Phil doesn't say this lightly. He means it with every fiber of his being.
He loves this place.
It's just unfortunate, after so many months of avoiding her, he finally managed to be here at the same time as the dock worker that originally recommended it. Spies the waitress and she were not, and though they were particularly subtle, Phil still works for (and with) agents that could teach them a thing, or one hundred.
And now that curiosity has set in, intel will go to work.
"Need a refill?" comes a now familiar voice.
He looks up into the smiling face of his usual waitress, her hand extended to gesture at his half-empty glass of water. Her smile is neat, not too many teeth, and not pulled too tight, but it is betrayed by the amount of times he has seen its exact likeness on her face.
"Ah, no thank you Ana," he declines kindly. He hates being right.
"You know, it's kinda unfair," she simpers, retracting her hand and letting her gaze wander around to the other booths. "You've been coming here for months and you know my name, but I still don't know yours."
Phil gives her a placating smile, and for a moment, her eyes sharpen with recognition. A good thing, too. He did learn it from her. It's amazing what a diminutive grin can do.
"A real shame," he agrees.
For perhaps the first time, he sees her direct an actual emotion at him that isn't basic courtesy, fake cheer, or mild annoyance. Her amused smirk is a lazy thing, and completely at odds with the happy-to-serve food industry persona she has made.
"Like that then," she says, and it's not a question, but a statement.
"Hope that's not an issue for you and your friend," he cajoles.
Ana shrugs, a surprisingly inelegant gesture.
"No skin off my back," she tells him, and he can detect no hint of a lie. In all honesty, she most likely does not care, but has acted out of the interest of her friend. (Partner, maybe? No. Best not to ask in these times…)
"But?"
"But my friend can get curious," she allows.
He hums, spearing the last bit of his loaded hashbrowns on his fork. They do the dish a service here, the potatoes crispy yet moist, and the fillings usually coming in fresh from the warehouses not too far from here.
"I'll take that as an advisement," Phil guesses. A warning even.
She reaches out, only to think better of it. The aborted gesture, if he had to guess, would have been a friendly pat on the shoulder. A shame, he thinks, that something has made her second guess that instinct.
"Just keep as you are. She can get over it, and far as I can tell, you mind your own business. It's only fair we do the same," she grants him, and it's strangely touching how sincerely she means that statement.
"That's very kind of you, Ana."
She snorts, waving her hand and angling her body away from him as something at another table catches her attention. She plasters on her waitress smile once more as the trio scarfing down waffles at an alarming rate waves her over.
"Nah," she says, her tone at odds with her expression. "Just understand the value of secrets."
Her words caused Phil to grin into his food, and he makes sure to leave extra on her tip this time around. After all, a little positive reinforcement never hurts.