So I realized that I'm challenging the rules of this type of story to the fact that Harry has not appeared yet. Congratulations, you finally realized that. But does anyone understand that little conversation Fury and Hill had in the last chapter? Because that was your biggest bloody hint on the entire storyline. Go back and reread if it didn't dawn on you. As for this chapter, I couldn't help myself but put the Avengers in this kind of situation. It's also going to hopefully help you understand Death a bit more, but maybe not. She's a bit moody... Enjoy and please do review!
P.S Sherlock Holmes is my dippity-dog-daisy bro. I must write something involving him sometime or my mind will explode rainbows!
Chapter Three: Steve has a Chat with Death
Steve Rogers wasn't as isolated as many thought he was. He could happily blame all of it on Tony Stark. That playboy had literally dragged him, with a great deal of immature whining and effort, to a Gay Bar once. The entire ordeal reinforced his unyielding belief he was straight. He didn't have a problem with those types of people, but with his appearance, almost every one of those males had flirted with him. That made the poor man uncomfortable, to say that least. Stark had later struck again, dragging him to yet another destination: the Strip Bar. That was a complete and utter culture-shock for the super soldier who was frozen in ice for well over seventy years. And the biggest embarrassment in his entire life, especially since one of those ladies tried and failed to give him a lap dance. Lord knows how far Rogers would stay away from those types of establishments.
But now that the Captain and his team were ordered by Fury to infiltrate a strip club-drug house, you could say the man wasn't exactly thrilled. It was located in the worst part of town, even by 1940's standards, as nothing more than a grimy hole in the wall with a neon sign that said 'Blown Away' in suggestive cursive followed by a picture of a bright green leaf twisting around as if caught in a breeze. Stark had been nice enough to explain that said leaf was actually referring to a form of recreational smoking that was once illegal but was somehow becoming allowed under the law in certain states. Weed Tony called it, or Pot as Clint had said.
Natasha simply asked to borrow his complicated smart phone and look it up on Wikipedia for him:
"Cannabis, also known as marijuana (from the Mexican Spanish marihuana), and by numerous other names, is a preparation of theCannabis plant intended for use as a psychoactive drug and as medicine. Pharmacologically, the principalpsychoactive constituent of cannabis is tetrahydrocannabinol (THC); it is one of 483 known compounds in the plant, including at least 84 other cannabinoids, such ascannabidiol (CBD), cannabinol (CBN), tetrahydrocannabivarin (THCV), and cannabigerol (CBG).
Cannabis is most often consumed for its psychoactive and physiological effects which include euphoria, relaxation, and increase in appetite. Unwanted side-effects include decrease in short-term memory, dry mouth, impaired motor skills, reddening of the eyes, paranoia and anxiety."
Why anyone would want to use that type of drug was beyond Steve. But nonetheless, the super soldier and his team had to walk into a place full of those kinds of people with near-naked women and plenty of alcohol. Steve dressed appropriately with the help of Black Widow, which was certainly welcome help. He didn't want his leather jacket to smell of smoke, or his usual clothes. The man was clad in a jacket much like his own, except darker in color. He wore some sort of graphic shirt, with his shield printed on his chest with an edgy design. A pair of faded jeans hugged his hips, and converse sneakers covered his feet. The soldier sadly had to leave his hair unkept, which meant it wasn't slicked back in its usual 1940's fashion. It looked ruffled, golden tresses falling halfway over his ears. To him it just felt weird.
The others had to outfit themselves too. Tony, being the most at risk for blowing their cover, wore a large brimmed beanie and a pair of what he called 'hipster shades' to hide his face. Instead of his nice suits, a thick black cotton long-sleeve and a dark gray zip-up hoodie were being worn instead. He had on one of his pairs of work jeans, with oil stains evident on the legs. It seemed to help his overall average everyday Joe disguise. Natasha wore an outfit that Steve assumed to be appropriate for 'clubbing,' with a low long-sleeved V-neck colored a rich pinkish crimson and short black denim shorts. Cheap jewelry covered her wrists and suggestive stockings with ripped up the sides of her legs. A pair of platform heels were worn, plain red with an extremely shiny gloss. With the makeup she had on her face, she was sure to look like a woman looking for a little 'trouble' at night. Bruce dressed similar to Tony, except he decided to skip the shades and beanie and simply went without his wire glasses. Barton wore a tight-fitting shirt and jeans, showing off his muscles with a cheap fedora knocked-back on his head. A pair of slick shades were perched on the hat, making the intimidating arrow-shooting assassin seem like a normal middle-class guy going out for some fun.
Together, they were a motley crew. The two agents told Rogers that this kind of assignment was easier than most jobs they had working with S.H.I.E.L.D., but could be just as troublesome with the amount of civilian exposure. The Captain didn't doubt that, and hoped he could concoct some sort of plan after they got in. Bruce was nervous, but at least helped them by handing out earpieces that were not as easily spotted as a bluetooth headset. Tony looked as cool as a cucumber, and not at all phased at the fact he was about to walk into a drug-infested strip club filled with both the rich and average. Stark was actually the one to tell them that the place was actually a well-known spot for the less-liked devious business men, similar to his former partner Obidiah in style. Basically, sleazy men with enough money to look good but played dirty.
That just thrilled Rogers.
"You don't exactly look happy," said Tony, who was to the man's right as they walked towards the club door.
Steve glared at the billionaire, "I blame you for forcing me to go out about the city with you all those times."
Tony smirked, "I bet you do, Cap. I'd be disappointed if you weren't."
The blonde glowered at the richer man, with Banner looking amused. Natasha then spoke up, "Do we have a plan, Captain?"
Steve looked to his left, where the redhead Russian walked almost at his weight with her platform heels. For once, he honestly felt sheepish on the job. "To be honest, I'm not sure how to approach this," he admitted.
"Not to worry Cap, I think I might have one," said Clint.
The Captain raised a brow in his direction, "Let's hear it."
"Well, since Grim is supposedly over a hundred years old and a bit of a fan of historical people, maybe you should find her and try talking to her. You're not some Russian tyrant, but you are somebody who single-handedly changed the tide of World War II. Usually I wouldn't suggest this kind of contact with a threat like her, but since she's a bit more of a conversationalist than most, maybe you can persuade her. Meanwhile, the rest of us can spread out and make some form of perimeter, then listen in if anything goes south," explained the assassin.
Rogers mulled the plan over in his head. It actually wasn't that bad of an idea, except he was going to be the one confronting the target that could very possibly influence death and not act as back-up. Not that he was afraid, the man was just wary. Maybe he could learn more about the mysterious woman named Drake. Steve did have a knack for getting people to trust him; Mainly because he was honest to a fault. All he hoped was that Tony didn't make a fool of himself in the club, though there was still a possibility he behaved.
The Captain nodded to Hawkeye. "This could work, but only if Stark doesn't act out."
"Hey! I can play nice."
Bruce rolled his eyes subtly, "Says the man who's self-proclaimed as a Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist," he muttered. Tony smiled cheekily at that.
The five superheroes quietly walked along the alley, trying to remember they were undercover as night-clubbing civilians. Natasha and Barton buddied up together, arms around waists and a red head of hair resting on a shoulder. Stark, in attempt to make Rogers look inconspicuous, grabbed the man's arm and put him in-between himself and Banner. From there the billionaire attempted to make some form of late-night conversation. At a distance, it appeared to the bouncer who stood outside as though they were a clubbing couple and a trio of partiers. As the group approached the door, Steve nodded politely to the bouncer. The large black man nodded back, opening the grungy door for them.
As soon as the crew stepped in, music blasted into their ears. The deep bass thumped against their chests, scratchy tunes and lucrative yet suggestive phrases echoing through the space. Smoke was heavy in the air, twisting and curling in on itself only to grow larger with each periodic puff of someone's cigar. The lights were dimmed, an orange glow that made the wild dancing of the girls stripping free of their clothes all the more sultry. Each wall was painted black, gilded mirrors placed here and there. Each small stripper stage was lit with a different colored light, each woman dressed in a varying outfit. Feathers, leather, lace, spandex, rein stones... A new fantasy for each high-paying man. Tables were placed with appropriate gaps of space, a large bar stacked with drinks and cigarettes to one wall, and what seemed to be a VP area in the far back. Leather booths were along the sides, men with females on them and around them. All the while, conversations seemed to rise and fall in volume, challenging the music but drowning out one another to create an almost static buzz.
Steve Rogers noticed all of this, but some details caught his attention. Not in a bad way, but more as a peculiar observation. He noticed that nearly every person in the club, including the female attendees, wore some form of dark color. There were small splashes of neon getups, a white tailored suit or a lavender tie, but nothing too bright. Yet the strippers were in striking contrast. Vibrant corsets, glossy pink ribbons, metallic makeup creating exotic patterns on their faces like war paint. Polished plastic heels, bizarre feathered or furred boas, it all seemed to appear like some twisted viewing tent in a circus to Rogers. His team were like a minuscule drop of paint that spilled onto a dark oak table by accident.
Really, the super soldier's thoughts were too artistically poetic for some sketchy strip joint full of chain smokers.
Shaking away those thoughts while taking a quick glance at his fellow teammates on last time, he broke away and weaves through the crowds of people. The others moved about, spreading themselves out with a wide berth while eyeing their Captain. They had to maintain some sort of perimeter, especially when diving into a situation where they have no idea what their target will do. Steve carefully made his way between the tables and stages, skirting along the walls as his baby-blue irises scanned the faces around him for charcoal spheres.
Then Rogers caught sight of her, located in the very far back sitting alone in a large booth to the corner of the establishment.
Drake was leaning back into the plush red leather seating, elbows resting on the top cushions as her long arms draped down lazily. Kept between two fingers on her right hand was a stub of a cigarette, weakly burning. The woman was wearing the same outfit as she did in the photo Fury had shown his team, except her hood was drawn over most of her face not including her faintly pink lips and pale-skinned jaw. Raven black hair poured down her slim body and stopped at her waist, legs crossed in an uncaring fashion.
On the table in front of Drake was a serving dish you'd expect a waiter in a posh restaurant to use, but its contents were not of the normal variation. It was a half-destroyed Aztec pyramid of cigarette packs, specifically Red & White. Plastic packaging and crushed cardboard littered the table's surface, along with a single tall glass containing a pathetic puddle of what Steve assumed to be alcohol. Across from her was a plush leather couch with the same bright red coloring as the booth she sat at, empty of occupants.
"I spotted her," intoned Rogers, speaking specifically to his team listening through their earpieces.
"Great, now you just gotta strut along up to her and start some conversation."
"Your dating advice is inspiring to us all. Go ahead Captain, don't bother with the playboy over here."
"Love you too, Legolas. I'm happy that nobody cares to listen. Make sure not to get too drunk with Nat."
"Shut up, Tony," said Steve, who was quickly approaching Drake's table. The line went quiet hence, leaving the blonde to smile to himself.
The man came up to the table, drawing the attention of the person that had gotten Fury into an unhappy fit. Drake smiled lightly at him, pushing back her skull-decorated hood to reveal her otherworldly charcoal eyes.
"Hello there, Cap'n. It's been quite a few years, eh?" She said, catching him completely off-guard. His eyes widened slightly. Through his earpiece, he could hear Tony choke hoarsely on his scotch across the building at the bar with Bruce; Natasha cursed thickly in Russian under her breath.
"H-How did you-?"
Grim cut Steve off as she held up her hand, "Ah-ah! No questions until you sit. I'm not in the mood for all this strangely formal wish-wash that spies call espionage. I'd rather sit here puffing away at these lovely tobacco leaves while having a perfectly causal conversation with you than deal with glower-matches. I've won plenty of those."
Nodding carefully yet uncertainly, Rogers slid onto the leather couch, settling himself on the extremely cushioned seating. He stared at her for a few moments, then asked, "How did you know I would be here?"
Drake sat up, adjusting herself to appropriately talk to the man across from her. "I didn't, at least not exactly. After my stunt with Madame Maria Hill, I had a feeling her commanding officer or whatever would not give up immediately. But I had no idea you'd be the one to meet me. I just figured out who you are as you walked up to my modest table arrangement."
"Figured out?"
"Of course, my good man. I've been around long enough to know who the bloody fuck Captain America is! Fabulous job against the Nazi Party, especially H.Y.D.R.A." Her face darkened slightly, "Their treachery upon humanity and the mortal soul was beyond despicable. That was the first war in a long time that actually made me fear for the worst. The very first time was when Alexander the Great took the world by storm. He was blonde too, you know."
Steve honestly didn't know what to say. How did he go from meeting a dangerous woman to someone who was praising his service in the War and comparing it to a warrior conquering the ancient world?
Noticing his confused face, Drake blinked owlishly. "Oh! Silly me! I don't usually drivel off like that. I go by the name Drake, though I wonder if anyone figured out my riddle yet. Pleasure to meet you," she said amiably, offering her hand across the table.
The Captain couldn't help but stare at the black skeleton pattern mapping itself out across her skin like a blueprint, diagraming where each and every bone in her hand would be located exactly. He lifted his hand to meet hers, and found her grip to be just, if not stronger than his. It had been a long time since anyone had strength like that when he shook their hand. Most of the time he'd have to gently squeeze unless he wanted to break their bones, but not this woman.
"Steve Rogers," he replied in kind.
Lowering her hand away from his with a nod, Drake smashed the butt of her stub into the tray, grabbing at the half empty box before her and drawing out her next fix. She fumbled around for her lighter, holding it in her free hand, when a larger hand shot out and stopped her.
Drake raised an eyebrow. "What, do you think I'll light my damn hair on fire? I'm not that dim-witted."
Rogers shook his head, "May I?" He said simply, suggesting to her an old tradition rarely practiced.
Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a small 'o' at him. "Oh. Well, haven't had anyone do this for me in years." She forfeited her lighter to him, holding her cigarette out. Steve flicked the igniter, watching as the single little flame heated the smoker. Turning it off and placing it in the space in front of her, the man watched as she took a slow drag and blew the smoke through her nose like a dragon from a fairy tale.
"Lord, the last man to do that was a friendly old colored man who knew how to work a saxophone like no one I have ever seen. He lived in New Orleans and thought voodoo was real. Funny bloke, but good man nonetheless."
The captain smirked boyishly, "You have a story for everything, Ma'am."
Drake chuckled. "Good observation. It's a habit I have when I meet interesting people. I try to impart some type of wisdom and hand out a few riddles in the meanwhile."
Taking another short drag, she seemed to sober up. "Now, you know why you're here and I know why I'm here. What are your questions?" asked Drake with a controlled tone.
Steve blinked. Didn't she just say not to be formal? He shoved the thought away and just decided to go with it. "Why is Fury so bent on bringing you in?"
The woman blinked right back at him. "That's the great Caesar's name? The one man who lords over his high walls with fear and secrecy? Fury... Hmmm. He doesn't happen to have an eyepatch and a hefty scar on his face, does he?"
Again sounds of panic and shock sounded in Steve's earpiece. The super soldier himself looked just as surprised. This woman was crazy.
"Just how do you seem to know all of this?" Demanded Rogers, discarding his questions and finding himself feeling threatened.
Drake looked straight at him with her cold dark eyes. "Haven't you solved the riddle yet?"
"Yes, but-"
"But nothing!" She said loudly, "If you solved my riddle, then you know better than most mortals in all of existence! What is my real name, the reason for everything? The answer is the riddle, as the answer is the truth. And I am always truthful."
The Captain stared at her. "You cannot be serious," he muttered.
The woman had enough reason to actually look serious. "Pleasure to meet you Steven Joseph Rogers, let reintroduce myself," she said levelly, "I am Death."
All the Avengers were stunned into silence. When had this short exchange become so controversially insane?
Death spoke again, though hushed as she slowly gained volume. "The Bible states that God made life, then rested on Sunday. Sunday is technically my Birthday. Jesus was supposedly revived by God, born into being His son. I actually brought him back, but not into a human, or I guess mortal, form. He and what you would call God became the Light, Life, and Humanity. It was like giving a purpose to the opposite spectrum, an equal to my destruction. I had been sentient, it had not been. So, now Life was sentient just as I was, and thus two forces of nature have control of the puppet strings of mortals."
Steve slowly began shaking his head in disbelief, finally coming back to himself after minutes of stunned silence. "But that makes no sense. How can something that happens to everyone be a living thing? You can't be living."
"I'm not, Cap'n," she said in a flat tone, "I'm nothing but a bucket of battered old bones wrapped up in skin with no heart and no organs. I amcold, and I physically can only feel cold."
Rogers glanced at the cigarette in-between her long fingers. "Is that why you smoke so much?" he stated openly, "To keep yourself feeling warm?"
Death nodded solemnly. "When you were freed from the ice of the Arctic, how did you feel for awhile? Were you haunted by the phantom numbing pricks of cold, leaving you seeking thicker clothes and a heated fire? Yet, as much as you tried, you still felt that lingering freeze which kept you imprisoned so very long..."
The two individuals stared at each other, a strange understanding suddenly put between them. "Though I may be something ancient, which comes as a bit of a shock to you, I will tell you honestly I mean no harm to you or other mortals. I have morals I follow, and rarely do I ever break them."
Rogers regarded the feminine entity in a new light, but still questions bothered him. "I still don't understand what Fury wants with you. What did you do to make him so..."
"Paranoid?" she suggested.
Steve nodded to her. "Well," said Death, "A while ago, I'm not totally sure on the date, I had lowered my guard and foolishly appeared on camera out of nowhere in the middle of the San Francisco Airport. That must have tripped plenty of wires in your grand Caesar's book. He tracked me from then on, monitoring my movements but failing overall on figuring out who I was. Up til' now, I was probably a fucking wild card for his cute little super-secret club until the slip-up with the gun smuggling. Blithering idiots those crooks were. So, like any old time when my cover is blown, I wiped my shitty apartment clean of all my things, had a nice chat with Maria Hill as a sort of final taunt, and cut all ties. I'm living out the back of my car right now trying to figure out where to go next."
"So you're not out to take over the world with an alien invasion?" he joked.
Death rolled her eyes. "No, I'm not going to create a portal into space and allow thousands of Chitauri overrun New York City. Loki had been extremely foolish to think he could get away with that."
Steve raised a brow. "Would you have stepped in?"
At that, the woman laughed. "You people can be so thick sometimes! I did 'step in' so to speak. You're just not aware of the way I did. Blame your Caesar for that, Cap'n."
Death smashed her eighth stub for the entire night, drawing out yet another one and swiftly lighting it up. Taking a few steady drags, her charcoal eyes wandered the club. She let out a sigh, "I hate to ruin this strange conversation we're having, Cap'n, but I have a feeling your superior wasn't playing around when he gave you orders. You probably want me to come with you, am I right?"
Steve furrowed his brow, "Yes, but if you're not a risk, there shouldn't be a problem."
Death shook her head sadly, as if pitying the soldier. "You don't get it, Steven. Your Caesar is a leader, a leader of spies and the master of espionage. he knows how to manipulate and obviously knows your team. You as a person will always follow orders because that's the right thing to do. Tony Stark will vouch for me, being the rebel, and in the end be ignored. Black Widow will obey and keep her opinions to herself. The Hawk just the same, except he will try to speak out against it. Banner has morals, yet Fury will intimidate him.
"Where does that leave me? Something to be ID'd like a feral dog at some Zoo in case I break free from my cage? Or a new experiment to be poked and prodded under a microscope until I crack and kill them all? Your team has an understanding of what I am. I am Death, and many of your teammates have evaded me. You have as well, on multiple accounts. I am unpredictable, despondent, and jaded. I can happen at anytime, and I can take anyone. Be them man or woman, rich or poor, they are all equal before my eyes. I do my duty without query, and never faltering. But because I claim the dead and the dying, and because I am the destruction to Life's creation, I am jaded. Nothing shocks me, and it certainly doesn't amuse me; I take no joy in doing it.
"But what does your dear Caesar think? He thinks nothing. He is a human with the sole purpose of being the man with the big guns. He has no other drive except to make sure that he's prepared for everything. He watches everything, like a shadow watches a person's back. Control is what he wants, but he plays with fire that creates chaos. If you give him someone like me, there is no need for anything else. With a single touch, I can end your life. With a single glance, I can see every life story of all the people in this club. I know how each person will probably die, what legacy they leave behind, everything.
"So Cap'n, do not believe in dreams and hopes that lack any flavor. They're ash settling over a scene of destruction. Illusions most of these drug addicted business men seek when they smoke to find their high. Don't fall prey, or you'll be done for."
With a grunt, Death stood up and roughly stuffed her jacket pockets with cigarette packs. Disregarding the stunned soldier, she strolled over to another booth where a man seemed to be abusing a stripper. Steve watched as the well over six foot tall deity dragged the bruised female from the man's unsavory lap, throwing her to a empty couch. The woman was screaming, eyes wet and makeup smeared. Her arms were crossed over her chest, cradling herself. Death's cold charcoal eyes glinted menacingly at the blubbery gray-haired man, who was dressed in an overly expensive tan suit with a flashy gold Rolex on his left wrist. The two other ladies that had saddled up next to him had rushed in a panic towards their fellow woman, leaving the entity to glare at the business man laden with a stomach of lard. Rogers wondered if Death was really kidding about being somewhat of a moody individual.
"Don't treat a woman like that, you son of a bitch!" roared Death. "She may not have the most savory of occupations, but that gives you no right to abuse human life! Do you want me to get a jack knife so we can stab her together?! Commit some back-alley strip club murder to make ourselves feel macho and devious like some cheap motherfucking movie?! Take your filthy blood money Edward Jack Browning and waste it somewhere else! Beware of the four bullets that'll end your life in three years time!" She snarled.
The man in question, an Edward Browning, was shaking visibly in complete terror. It took him little time to gather himself up and make a beeline for the back door, crying out in fear all the way. The other customers stared wide-eyed at Death, but as soon as the woman glanced their way, the club attendees immediately went back to their previous engagements. The bartender nodded to her in thanks, which the deity returned solemnly in kind. With a few brief consoling words towards the abused stripper, Death turned away and moved easily through the crowds. Steve silently cursed to himself as he got up to search for the six foot tall woman...
Plopping beside Tony Stark, Death smiled cheekily as she tapped him on the shoulder. The man jumped, sunglasses tittering precariously and his clothes falling into disarray. The female laughed wholeheartedly, also startling the gamma radiation scientist beside the billionaire.
"Ha-ha... Sorry to shock you. I have a habit of startling people."
Tony gave a firm shake of his head, as if to rid himself of fear. "Jesus, how about you don't sneak up on others? It's really good advice you know... Death?" He said quizzically.
The woman nodded. "I just came by to say that you have very bad habits yourself. If you keep evading your destined death day, it's going to bite you in the arse like a drugged hyena to an African's bum."
The playboy raised an eyebrow, "You came over here just to discuss with me my mortality?"
"Yes."
"You're crazy. You know Black Widow will be here within moments to technically apprehend you with Tweetie Bird right on her tail, right?"
"Yes."
"Then why are we even talking?!" Cried Tony, both bothered by Death's legitimate presence and her statement about his 'habits' of cheating death.
Death chuckled, "Because I have enough sympathy to give you a heads-up, and I need to ask Sparky for a white rabbit-'EY SPARKY!"
The bartender appeared, smiling devilishly. "What is it, my Punk Princess?"
"I need a white rabbit," she said with a sensuous tone that the two scientists would never have expected from an entity that embodied destruction. The two geniuses looked at her like she was clinically insane.
"Bugs Bunny, Roger Rabbit, or the infamous Rainbow Dash?" He asked, wriggling his eyebrows as she spoke with an equally husky tone.
"Rainbow. I'll be needing a competent partner in crime."
"Be right back then, Sugar Plum."
The two men watched as the male behind the bar disappeared through a side door. They turned to Death, dumbstruck.
"Did that guy just blatantly flirt with you?" questioned Bruce.
"And you fucking flirted back?" Added Stark.
She nodded dreamily, "Sometimes I wish I wasn't a God-like being and I could just live out a wild life of adventure. That bartender was the best shag I ever had, third to the Peverell brothers who are second to the Master of... never mind," she finished shaking herself free of her thoughts.
Glancing around, Death nodded to herself absently before jumping over the bar counter and grabbing a large bottle of Smiroff Whipped Cream. She hurried to the side door, catching 'Sparky' just in time to grab a very large white rabbit and plant a healthy kiss on his lips. Natasha was swiftly closing in, followed by Steve and Clint who looked flabbergasted at the scene of Death making out with the bartender. Rushing by Stark and snagging his beanie, Death hopped over the counter once again and sped off toward the door.
As she flew out, Death nodded to the bouncer. "Have a good night, Jerry! Say hello to Diana and the kids for me!" she yelled over her shoulder. The black man shook his head, a smirk on his face. The Avengers shot out the door moments later, trying to catch up to the willowy young woman with long raven hair and charcoal eyes.
"They're in it for sure if Rag-Bones leads them down the lane," muttered the bouncer, Jerry.
Little did that large man know, that was the famous superhero team the Avengers chasing after Death herself, who was holding a large fluffy white rabbit named Rainbow Dash in the crook of her right arm and a large bottle of Smiroff Whipped Cream vodka in the other. Tony Stark's beanie was pulled over her head, never to be gained again.
Somewhere in the world a cellphone was ringing like an old fashioned telephone. A man picked it up on the first ring.
"Report."
"Rogers, Sir. Death-Ah! Ow! No Stark! I... I mean Grim, just escaped. She fled the club faster than we expected and jumped into a beaten up Jeep with no legible license plates. For some reason, she ran off with a large white rabbit... God, alright alright Tony! Supposedly named Rainbow Dash from what Stark tells me, a bottle of vodka and Stark's beanie. I really don't know what to make of it, Sir."
The man sighed exasperatedly, "Did you at least get to talk to her? Anything she has to say can be some type of clue as to her next move."
"She said plenty, Sir. Grim defended her position during the gun smuggling incident and revealed a great deal about herself. But one thing I can be certain about, Sir: She has a real dislike for S.H.I.E.L.D."
The male nodded to himself, "I see. Anything else to report at this current time?"
"Nat was lucky enough to throw a tracker into the back of Grim's Jeep. We should be able to locate her that way."
"Good. I can get the Tech group on that immediately. Report back to the Helicarrier for a debrief and a written report."
"Yes, Sir."
The man hung up, staring at the cellphone in his dark-skinned hands for a few moments before he shoved it into his pockets and clicked on his bluetooth attached to his ear.
"Agent Hill."
"...Yes, Director?"
"Tighten the security on SS-04. I have a feeling it won't be long until we'll have both Grim and SS-04 on the Helicarrier together. I'm not about to take chances."
"Affirmative."
Closing the signal, the man paced for a few moments, brooding over the upcoming meeting that was soon to take place. He was going to be totally fucked if he doesn't tread carefully from here.
Extremely careful.
