Chapter 4: The Crusade Begins
The Avengers sat in their cell and wondered how they got there. It had been a blur of blue and red lights, handcuffs flashing silver and bright bursts of flash photography before the dull bars of their individual cells slid close. It was merely a formality, of course, they'd hold off on the booking on account of them…being who they were. A god, a famed inventor, secret government agents and a man out of his time; it was hard enough putting records together of the un-named criminals off the streets, let alone the eclectic bunch of do-gooders. And what good would that do?
Everyone knew who the Avengers were.
Or at least, they thought they did.
They did, however, only have one phone call. It was regulation, even for heroes.
It was a pressing dilemma to know that not even their good name was enough anymore and there wasn't much else to the perks of the job, not when every action you took looked like treason.
"This hardly inspires any confidence in me, let alone your people, my friends."
Thor said, gently resting a hand on the metal bars whilst the other lay at his side, grasped at thin air for something not quite there. He continued softly, frowning, pressing harder against the cool metal, feeling it bend to his fingers before he pulled away to face the concrete wall.
"How do we lend aid, when it is not wanted? Who will they call upon? Our allies are many, Midgard has many protectors, yet even now they're beginning to fear us. All of us."
There was silence.
"Who do we call on to calm their doubts? Who can we call on to help us help Midgard even as they refuse our aid?"
Captain America, leader of the Avengers, stood with a hand on the phone and said.
"There's only one person to call. Someone who knows better than to trust in the public's fickle favour."
Batman, the dark knight, the caped crusader was many things; an influential public figure with quite a bit of political clout, a crime-fighter who did what needed doing, but if there was one thing he wasn't: it was happy. Things had gone from bad to worse within the past few months, the few heroes who did lend a favourable light to his alter-ego had suddenly been cast as the same role as he comfortably encased into: a public menace. It happened quickly, and with such resounding certainty, that Bruce wasn't even sure if anyone could pay that many people to provide the array of sincere and presumably false accounts of heroic vigilantism, and even victimization of well-known powered-villains. It was puzzling. He doubted that the heroes themselves had resigned themselves to vigilante justice, however justified, too many relied on and were bolstered by the glowing reception of an adoring public.
It was almost a relief that no one had actually caught any heroic figure on the scene of these acts of heroic terrorism; he'd drafted the issue as something to be passed off as just another media updraft, well, at least, until now. After a month of speculative pieces by the media, and dozens of witness reports, and a dearth of any actual physical evidence, the avengers implicate themselves quite nicely in full view of the public eye, with bow and trimmings, all in one go?
It was all a little too convenient.
Someone was planning something, and heroes needed to know to watch their step, it was hardly a novel situation… save for the fact that instead of fighting against some nameless villainy, they'd be facing down one of their trickiest foes of all: the less than adoring public.
Best case scenario: heroes far and wide won't see a need to defeat bad guys during the eye of the growing media storm.
Worse cast scenario: heroes far and wide can't defeat bad guys during the eye of the growing media storm, and there is a need to.
Which only meant one thing: the remaining heroes needed to meet and soon. But with half the cavalry in prison, calling /him/, to bail them out, this needed to be handled carefully lest the rest of the self-named heroes were dragged back into the mud.
Bruce Wayne was many things, but most of all: he was the /lone/ crusader. Needless to say, he was not looking forward to inviting half the league, particularly not for /tea/.
Booster was minding his own business (mostly) and was half-way through a particularly well-constructed beef sandwich when he choked and spat incoherently onto the console in a spray of crumbs and condiments. For a moment, he wheezed. Then, seemingly, he rubbed his eyes, and wiped the edge of his mouth on his hand and said haltingly.
"Skeets. There's something wrong with the communicator."
"Sir, a scan of the computing inputs reveals no obvious signs of computing error. That is more than I can say about your own bodily facilities. Would you care to run a troubleshooting diagnostic?"
"Skeets. It's says that the Avengers, they've been arrested."
"Sir, unlike today's technology, I am quite aware of how exactly to parse out the meaning of sentences. Do you need a refresher course?"
"Something's terribly wrong."
"Sir, do not be alarmed. There has been no detected change in your physiology. The momentary lack of oxygen could not have done any permanent damage. Well. Not any more than the physical incursions you subject yourself to."
The screen, splattered still with bits of lettuce shifted from the newsfeed to a disgruntled masked /scowling/ cowl of a familiar face.
"We need to talk."