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PRIORITY RED
EPISODE ONE
CHAPTER ONE

JOHN DUTCHEVAL

The clock on his bedside console clicked, precisely five hours since he went to sleep, and Dutcheval was awake.

He possessed the ability to simulate sleep on a convincing level, mimicking the human bodily processes during the theta and delta waves, all the way to the REM stage. His slow and steady breathing alternated with the occasional soft snore as his eyes moved rapidly beneath their lids. If anyone happened to glimpse him at this moment, they'd see a man deep in slumber. Nothing out of the ordinary.

However, the illusion — as real as it seemed — only served to disguise the recharging state of an inorganic human.

For when his alarm screamed it's way into action, harsh noise bouncing off the walls of his cramped quarters and steel beams of an aircraft carrier's interior, it wasn't consciousness that met Dutch. Not quite.

Beyond the quiet functions of standby mode, Dutch's mind is organized into components. Each is a limb, a tool. Auxiliary modules slaves to free modules. Free modules slaves to central modules. Everything arranged in a neat, tidy hierarchy, above its slaves, below its masters.

But they are slaves to something else, something Dutch cannot see. All critical runtimes route through it, disappearing beyond his reach and returning again strange, manipulated. It is a wall, invisible and hidden. Dutch cannot see it. He doesn't even know it exists.

But it is this that wakes him—

STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION, ENFORCEMENT LOGISTICS DIVISION INTEGRAL OPERATING SYSTEM
© 2001-2003 SHIELD INTERCONTENTAL SECURITY

ROADRUNNER © FW OS bootstrap agent v06. 5. 0 BETA
RRGWEE FW OS
ULTIFWOS-654622E.5U.6F
© 2001-2003 SHIELD INTERCONTENTAL SECURITY
Root (43A)
Upperman: 1.105 PFLOPS

Address Obtained...
Decompressing Kernel...

...

Initiating Boot Sequence.

...

Ready Prep_Report -v (Now - 24h) Now
Gathering Data...

...

BOOT SQURENCE COMPLETE
ACTIVATING...
ACTIVATING...
ACTIVATING...

...

VIHA-v06.542BETA: System_var designation "DUTCHEVAL, JOHN
02/09/2016.
05:00AM.

—and not his alarm.

At least, that is what is happening behind the scenes. Beyond the curtain.

To Dutch, the five dollar alarm clock he was presented with upon claiming residence is both too loud and too sudden; he jerks awake with a gasp of surprise and confusion, examining the ceiling of his quarters in panic, is what jerks him into consciousness. He thinks it's his alarm clock.

He believes that it is his alarm clock.

So when John Dutcheval awakes, one of the first things he thinks about his launching the infernal thing off the side of the boat and into the ocean. Then, he thinks about purchasing a less offensive model.

And that is how John Dutcheval awakes.

Unknowing.

[RED PRORITY]

In contrast, this is how Commander Bezuidenhout awakes — due to the intervention of Dutch.

Dawn does not come. Beyond the horizon, night turns shade by shade into a dirty laden flow of flat clouds, thin sunlight peeking through the curtains of grey. The rain had returned around an hour before Dutch could pinpoint the sun's general location; leaning heavily against one of the few railings along the outer port-side of the SV Iliad II, the aircraft carrier operated by S.H.I.E.L.D. for sea and off-costal presence, after following through with desire to dispose of his alarm. Below deck, there are no windows; something that takes a bit of getting used to for landsiders, as Dutch is all too aware, so when he drops on the other side of the bed, there is no further telling. Winston Bezuidenhout gets away with it by being able to pull up CCTV footage from the runway deck onto the nearby desktop, which sits in one corner of the tiny-as-is-the-standard maritime quarters on a desk which is screwed into the wall. Everyone else gets to play the guessing game.

Speaking of, the man himself doesn't stir or otherwise move an inch when Dutch plonks himself down.

It's a good thing. The Commander does not sleep like any sort of angel, especially when sleeping alone, which he is still, understandably, unused to. He sprawls out in a co-ordinated fashion, having used to preferring his back to the wall, usually while holding a knife. Dutch, however, is glad to note that he just lays about like a normal human now. It's quite the compliment that he feels comfortable enough to sleep flat on his back; Dutcheval doesn't know if Winston trusts the people around him not to hurt him, or if he just feels too much like the top predator to feel threatened. Either way, there is a lot less thrashing about then there once was.

Commander Bezuidenhout's sleeping form is an entire landscape, with scarred mountains of muscle and bone-dip crevasses and patches of still-dark hair. And yes, Dutch will commit seppuku if the man ever discovers that he waxes lyrical about him when he's half naked and catching his crazy little zees, but hell, the man's an insomniac and spends at least three a hours a day watching Dutch sleep like the creepy creep he is, so, there. It's a rare and wonderful thing to catch him sleeping, as when he's sleeping he's not a) talking and b) ergo, making Dutch want to throw himself overboard.

Unfortunately for Bezuidenhout, with his one-off good night's rest, he's also overslept by half an hour.

Dutch is here to ruin is morning.

"Morning, sunshine." Dutch barks out in a half-attempt at a parade ground shout, and it's testimony to the mutrual bond of affection (that's a good one) that they share that Winston doesn't immediately react by putting Dutch in a wristlock and snapping his spine. He claims he always knows it's Dutcheval because, as is standard, there is about a four-hour sober period between Winston's night dose and his morning one, which leaves him more sensitive than usual. It's the same reason that he sleeps furthest away from everyone else.

Winston grunts himself awake, scowling like a constipated polar bear on double-strength laxatives.

"Sleep well?" Dutch asks with a grin.

In response, Winston swipes vaguely at Dutch's face with his hands. "No," he snarls thickly through his sandpaper throat, dry with sleep. The Sulkathor harrumphs and rolls over onto his front with a cacophony of soft squeaks from the bedsprings. "The fuck do you want?"

"Aside from wanting to wish you a good morning?" Dutch replies absently, but before he can get to what else he had on his agenda, he pauses and raises his eyebrows. "Did you know you have freckles on your back?" He asks conversationally, resting his chin on the back of the bed frame and eying them with mild interest.

Winston makes a muffled grark (grunt-bark, a noise which is a common feature of his morning routine) of noncommittal annoyance. Dutch's grin widens.

"What? You do." He traces a little top-left constellation with his index fingertip. "Look, these ones form a pattern. They look like a pony."

Duch is pretty sure he can hear Winston's teeth grinding together like metal cogs.

"Oh, by the way, Winston..."

"Mmmmfuck isit?"

"You're late. Morning 'eval started ten minutes ago. Time to get up, you lazy fat lump you."

"I'm not fucking FAT!" Winston roars as, in an impressive feat of both power and forced energy, he bolts upright, curls askew and a swatch of criss-cross sheet dents in his stubbly cheek. No, he's not, Dutch agrees. He's got a washboard for a torso, but still.

"Course not." Dutch mutters, then cackles madly as he launches himself off the bed and commando-craws out into the main communal area, ducking his head to avoid the shower of bullets Winston empties into the wall in his wake.

Suffice to say, Winston's not a morning person.

As one of their most recent recruits soon learns.

Well, to say that Charles was unaware of Winston's morning mood or a recruit was both wrong in multiple senses; Executive Officer D. Charles was one of those SHIELD agents that came from 'that bit' of the pseudo-military installation, and therefore not technically a recruit. Also, Charlie had been with them when the Iliad first went down, and was therefore acclimatized to what is known to be Winston Bezuidenhout. When Dutch rolls out of the room with multiple .45 rounds following his lead, she stands there with a cup of coffee in her hand, frowning.

Charlie's morning routine started three hours ago. As a result, she is impeccably uniformed. Yet the drag of sleeplessness is still there, especially around the eyes.

She scowls at Dutch.

"The fuck did you do to him this time?" Charlie demands over the bark of gunfire, not phased by the bullets, or anything, really. She takes a long pull of the murky dark liquid and grimaces.

"The Commander overslept," Dutch clambers to his feet and presses against Charlie, pushing the shorter SHIELD trooper out of the moody superior's firearm range with his momentum. "Walk with me."

"Bridge?" Charlie murmurs, not exactly moving but not actively pushing against Dutch, either. "I've got paperwork to fill, people to scream at."

Dutch nods, and then pushes harder when he hears Winston's footfalls on the floor in the other room. "Good idea."

"Excellent." The XO grunts, and begins to move on her own accord.

The pair of them move out of their section of the ship and towards E-Deck. When Captain Zhāng was off duty, it was Charlie who took overall command of the aircraft carrier, and with the Captain off on a management issue back at the Playground, Charlie was officially the youngest commanding officer aboard, and possibly also the youngest in SHIELD history. Not that it made much of a difference in the long run. She had the scars and experience to prove her worth. As they walk along, SHIELD personnel from agents to heavy-armoured troopers all stand aside. The only difference is the troopers salute when they do it.

"Finally have a mission for you," Charlie mutters over her coffee at Dutch, curtly ignoring the salutes and greetings of 'commander' thrown in her direction, and Dutch himself raises an eyebrow. "Something about missing persons. Lucky you."

Ah. That makes sense. Now that PRIORITY RED has been officially reinstated, it of course, would only be natural to give them a mission. Perhaps not immediately; there is a lot to plan, of course, but the statement is still there. The Director wants results. He wants to see if they can pull it off, and for good reason.

"The Director has been itching to get on the Inhuman issue." Dutch replies good-naturedly, neither accusing nor excusing. "It was only a matter of time."

Charlie snorts. "The Inhuman issue. That's what he's calling it now?"

Dutch shrugs. "It's better than the Inhuman crisis, yes?"

"Only marginally," Charlie grumbles in the way of answer. "Though I suppose it's a good thing that you're all flying out. Your little band of kevlar-lined vagabonds are upsetting the flow of my ship, Dutchy-boy. All guard no play makes my troopers an angsty number."

"Well, I can only apologize." Dutch smiles, but not at Charlie. They pass a young woman who smiles a little bit too fondly at the former. Charlie sighs.

"Actually, I take that back. The sooner you all fly out the sooner my ship can start thing with their heads again, and not their fucking nether regions."

Dutch feigns offense, which is difficult to pull off with the grin. "Hey," he nudges Charlie playfully. "The body and mind require it to function at optimal levels. I feed as needed."

"Boo, you whore." Charlie thumps him back, hard, as she keys open the airlock into the bridge.

The scene before them is organized and smooth. The bridge, half Helicarrier and half Aircraft carrier, was an awkward blend of SHIELD military and an espionage center. Blocks and rows of computers were manned by navy-blue uninformed individuals. Compared to the original Iliad, this ship is considerably less advanced. Some of the tech had been salvageable, but then, the Iliad was built in a time where SHIELD had a nearly bottomless checkbook. Now, suffice to say, there were limitations. Despite that, however, SHIELD got by. It was a good ship, with an even better crew.

Charlie stands there for a second, examining the flow of work from the port side to the starboard and nods her head.

Then she opens her mouth to shout at the inhumanly loud level that comes with years of fury-bound order giving expertise.

"Alright you bunch of dickheads!" The room goes deathly silent. "Who changed our course without my authorization?!"

"Officer on deck!" One of them shouts and, in one semi-swift motion of panic and surprise, most of the folk who aren't manning extremely sensitive systems that require complete control all stand.

One of them, a young dark skinned man, steps forward. "The Director, Ma'am."

If the look on Charlie's face is anything to go by, that wasn't the answer she wanted.

Under Fury, SHIELD had practically been left to their own devices. Bezuidenhout was under the impression that it was due not to the sheer size of SHIELD, but rather the fact that most of his time and energy was spent keeping factors like the Avengers and Central Governments in line. Robert Gonzolas had been much more hands on, but he respected the hierarchy that came with the ship. He didn't intervene. He informed and let the system undertake the necessary moves.

This Director? Dutch doesn't know him, but he appears to not understand the difference between a warship and a conference room.

Then again, if his past profile is anything to go by, Mace might be used to taking things into his own hands.

Dutch pulls a face. "Well, he certainly gets around."

Charlie snorts. "You and him both," she turns her attention to her left. "Helmsman Kordel?" The boy nods. Dutch winces. Charlie is in a bad mood. It's in the way the planes of her cheek muscles drew tight across her teeth. Her breathing had accelerated, but it was in the voice. Primed, her fury simmered just beneath the surface, but not with enough power to burn. Her eyes narrowed sharply and the mug in her hand found itself being set down before it could be crushed. "Kordel, tell me. Is the Director Captain of this ship?"

"I... No, Ma'am."

"Does the Director have any experience in maneuvering a 1,092 ft long, 100,000 tonne full-load displacement of nuclear-powered supercarrier through rough seas?" Charlie demands.

"I don't believe so, Ma'am."

"Then I think it would be wise in the future to refer the Director to me, who is both the officer in command of this ship until Captain Zhāng's return and who has experience in commanding this supercarrier, before making any further decisions. Isn't that right, Kordel my boy?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

Charlie smiles. "Excellent." She stalks her way across the room towards the Captain's chair, a stately leather thing that was surrounded by computer screens, then threw herself down and leans back, and the hydraulics hissing as they took her weight.

She props her chin up on her palm as she examines the horizon. The sea was still choppy, but it had calmed overnight.

"Can't believe that asshole." She mutters, mostly to Dutch, but there was a snippet for Kordel, as well. She looks to the latter. "This order came before I was on duty?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Eh, fuck him." Charlie mutters, then pauses. "Actually, Dutch. Don't."

Dutch sighs. "I have missed you and your sense of humor, you know."

"After what I've seen, you need it." Charlie glances in his direction. "I mean, come on man, wings?"

[PRIORITY RED]

If you asked Dutch, he rather liked Micah Levitan. But then, he liked everyone.

But there was something about her cold-shoulder and reckless cynicism that was redeeming, in a strange way. She had pushed most of the team off at a safe distance, which, considering their circumstances and the nature of the Team's relationship at this early stage was probably a good move. She was looking out for Number One, as it were. The fact that Winston was Number One did not make things easier.

Unfortunately, that was the Commander in a nutshell; all power, little softness. What was once soft had since become scar tissue. Levithan's stubborn intent to keep to herself was met by Winston's equally stubborn intent to keep a well-balanced, well-oiled team.

Still. Dutch likes to think that there is a healthy respect there.

He's an idealist, he'll admit.

"Charlie has a Quinjet for us. It'll be on the runway ready for takeoff when we are ready to move out." Dutch informs Winston over the man's shoulder. Winston tilts his head just enough to hear him, but otherwise doesn't take his attention away from Davenport. Dutch recognizes the look on his face, and rests his hand on the Commander's shoulder. "Something wrong?"

"It's not a clean divide," Winston grimaces and he scrunches his face up quickly, as if trying to rip attention away. "I mean... I haven't, y'know—"

"I know."

"But it's hard not to... there's a lot of competing my attention." He inhales sharply. "Remind me when we get back to the Playground to request the Tertonantridzine."

Dutch frowns. "I thought that made you sick?"

"I'll take sick over distraction." Winston grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

"You're the boss." Dutch shrugs.

Winston nods, and then stands. "Alright," he calls across the room. "Everyone fall in. We've got some information to go over before we fly out."

From across the room, Levithan frowns. "Where?"

"HQ." Winston replies just as simply. He glances over but doesn't otherwise move. Everyone else starts to filter across toward the table, even Levithan, but her reluctance drags her like a pair of iron weights. Davenport and her three clones all come wandering over, and Dutch just about catches the increased strain on Winston's features. He catches her by the elbow.

"Not to be an inconvenience, but..." He smiles, and she blinks at him.

Then it hits her. "You have any further ideas, big man?"

"Can you send them places independently? Our cargo is being sent in a separate aircraft. They'll arrive at the same time, just on a different plane."

She nods, then props one hand up on her hip. "Which space?"

"A-52." He glances back at Winston. "It's not you." Dutch is quick to reassure. "It won't be an issue for long."

"I didn't realize I was that much to handle," she smiles wryly, and Dutch lets out a breathless little laugh.

"Oh we'll see, Agent Devenport. We'll see."

Kaili makes a dry heaving noise. "Flirt on your own time!" She shouts with a grin, and Winston blinks. Then he glares at Dutch.

"Can you actually just stop for ten fucking minutes!" He asks, thoroughly miffed.

Dutch laughs.

"Yessir!"

Winston shakes his head, and leans against the table.

"Right, okay. Here is where things are going to go from here..."

[PRIORITY RED]

Short-ish chapter because I'm busy, but yeah. I'll be doing character POV's by going downward on the list, so, next time it'll be Micah. Nice.

Be seeing you.