Haven't had a disclaimer in a while...consider this whole thing disclaimed, forever. Because seriously, look at the website name. No-one on here owns anything. Do we even have to write disclaimers? Someone come back to me on this.
So I've been writing this for Camp NaNo...yeah, I'm pretty sure my cabin mates think I'm a total nutter. The things I do for you guys...
Neither me nor my beta, run-robin-run, have had reliable Internet until the 9th of August. I arrived back in the UK on the 10th. This was actually written by the 20th of July, but these things can't be helped. Nevertheless, you have my apologies for the wait.
And and I have discovered that S.H.I.E.L.D. is spelt like that, with a dot after it as well. *multiple nasty swearwords* I'm just gonna keep spelling it my way though. It's quicker to type.
Miracles Don't Just Come From Jesus
T S Eliot was wrong. The world will not end with a bang, or a whimper. Because there's a third option, a third way this little planet of ours will stop spinning around our sun in this happy corner of our universe.
The world will end not with a bang, or with a whimper.
It will end with a miracle.
And there's nothing more horrifying, than a miracle.
(*I*I*I*)
Ironically enough, the day starts out slowly, and normally. Two things I wouldn't even get to think about for the rest of the day, let alone experience. I got up early, grabbed a coffee, yelled at a few rookies who fucked up a mission in spectacular style by not following S.H.I.E.L.D's clearly laid out protocol, made a start on the day's paperwork, held a meeting with Agent Hand over the necessity of having more quinjets built - you know, the usual.
It starts off, as many of the weirdest things in my life seem to do these days, when I set foot in Avengers Tower. Clutching some files destined for Pepper's desk (that are far too sensitive to be digitised or handed over to a courier for transport) I step into the elevator, already planning out the next deep cover mission into Latveria in the forefront of my mind while studiously ignoring whatever hideous elevator music is trying to invade my eardrums. Because while most things in this tower scream 'understated money' thanks to Pepper's impeccable taste, the music - and my hearing - seem to be fair game for assault.
Stepping out of the doors and onto the Avengers' shared floor is always an experience to say the least. I have witnessed everything from semi-naked drinking games to all-out Nerf wars to Thor duct-taped to the ceiling in this room. This time, however, might take the biscuit.
The first thing I register is yelling and cursing, swear words flying as fast as the myriad of weapons currently rocketing around the room. A burst of gunfire from Romanoff lights up the scene, and a painful sounding thump is the first sound I can distinguish from the chaos as Rogers seemingly trips over red light and slams heavily into the floor. A silver blur harasses Thor, darting around the god and forcing a frustrated roar from his lips; Barton is nowhere to be seen but -even as the thought crosses my mind- an arrow streaks down from a nearby vent, though Bruce is seemingly hiding behind a plant pot which can't be good-
Instincts take over as I sense someone behind me. I drop the files I was holding, reach out a hand behind me, grab the presence, shift my weight, roll the figure onto my back and heave. Before even my own thoughts can catch up with me, I have a knife pressed to the person's neck as they lie prone at my feet.
Shocked red eyes look up at me, fading to a warm but no less disbelieving brown even as I watch. Mutant. And a dangerous one at that.
"Freeze Roadrunner," Stark's voice echoes from his suit, the 'necessary' stupid nickname for the villain ready prepared as per usual, "or your girlfriend is a goner."
The silver blur coalesces into a man, with a silver top, silver hair and a murderous expression in bright blue eyes. "She is my sister," he snarls in a thick Eastern European accent, "and if you do not remove that knife from her neck, you will find it embedded in your chest before you can even blink." But he doesn't move -even though he vibrates on the spot with suppressed energy, hands twitching at his sides- and that in itself speaks volumes about where the power in the room lies.
"Alright kid, I want you to take everything slowly." I try my best to keep an aura of calm authority as I briefly look up from the girl to nail the boy with a flat look. "Hands on your head, then get on your knees."
A growl rumbles in his chest and his eyes flicker around the room, searching for escape, but then he looks down at his sister and his eyes soften. His hands migrate to the top of his head and his knees hit the floor with a thud. Romanoff wastes no time in handcuffing both his wrists and his ankles together with S.H.I.E.L.D issue handcuffs that should mute, if not totally suppress, his powers. Barton rolls out of the vent closest to me in complete silence, catching the handcuffs thrown his way on the fly and quickly securing the young woman at my feet. Thor and Rogers manhandle the boy onto the floor next to his sister, and I watch with interest as they both palpably relax at the other's proximity. Siblings, or possibly twins, that actually like each other and fight side by side in relative harmony. Only great adversity can temper the natural sibling tendency towards arguing to such a degree, and I hate to think what these kids have been through to make them try to take on the Avengers alone.
Noticing the Avengers are all looking at me expectantly, I raise my eyes from the two mutants, pithy comments germinating in the back of my mind. But in the end, there's only one thing that's totally appropriate to say.
"What the hell is going on here?"
(*I*I*I*)
"Primary intelligence reveals these two are Pietro and Wanda Maximoff, a pair of eighteen year old twins orphaned by the civil war in Sokovia, Eastern Europe. They've been on the radar for a while for leading anti-US and anti-foreign interference protests in their homeland that can get pretty violent on occasion. I won't insult your intelligence by relating all the facts about the civil war, but I can explain why they hate America, and the Avengers, so much." Agent Malek -who I had promoted last week- spins his tablet around to show me the screen.
A large black bomb sits in the middle of the screen, the lethal weapon perched precariously on a pile of rubble and what looks like shattered dinner plates. Two words stand out in bright white along the side. Stark Industries.
The Intelligence agent declines to take the tablet back when I offer it to him and continues his report. "They spent two days looking at this unexploded bomb after another one thirty seconds beforehand blew both their house and their parents to kingdom come. It's enough to fuel anyone's lifelong hatred, let alone convince them to take up with HYDRA in order to get superpowers. Their rescuers took the picture after the bomb was disabled."
"I know."
Green eyes widen in surprise. "You do?" Then he seems to remember who he's talking to, and scratches the back of his head awkwardly. "I mean, uh, you probably did your own research already-"
"No Agent Malek," I say with an understanding that doesn't often permeate my tone when someone is making a fool of themselves, "I know about that photo because I'm the one that took it."
And with that, having gathered all the relevant information and with Fury's penchant for dramatic exits having rubbed off on me, I sweep out of the hallway and into the viewing room attached to the Maximoff's cell, closing the door sharply and leaving an open-mouthed and very confused Agent Malek staring after me.
Oh, who am I even kidding? I love dramatic exits. And I'm damn good at them too.
"So?" My smugness fades immediately as I realise that I'm going to have to explain all this to the Avengers -to Stark. How do you explain to a fundamentally good man that he killed the parents of the kids sat in front of him? I've done it before, but I've never done it to someone who cares. Not someone who will turn it into a weapon of self-hatred and use it to destroy themselves with, anyway. Stark is no longer the Merchant of Death, but a Purveyor of Self Hatred. And he's just as good at it as he was at his old job.
But in my position, you get used to doing things that you don't want to do.
"Their names are Wanda and Pietro Maximoff. Orphaned at ten when a shell collapsed their apartment building in their homeland's ongoing civil war. Sokovia's had a rough history. It's nowhere special but it's on the way to everywhere special, which makes it a prime target for everyone from-"
"The missile," Stark interrupts, his face sheet white and his fingers nervously playing with his collar, "the shell, whatever blew up that building. Did it, I mean was it..."
In answer, I simply tilt my screen slightly and show him, and only him, the picture.
Stark turns an interesting shade of green and bolts out of the door. The other Avengers shout after him with a worried chorus of "Stark!" and "Tony!" Quietly, I turn off my tablet. What the Avengers don't know has a large chance of hurting them, but this is Stark's business, and it's his choice when to face his team. He needs time to pull himself together.
Barton turns on me with furrowed eyebrows, the other Avengers following his lead. "Hill, what on earth did you just show him?"
"Something very common called 'None of your business'." There's a moment where everyone in the room exchanges exasperated but resigned looks. No-one gets information out of me that I don't want to give, and most know better than to try.
Timidly, Barnes speaks up, still not quite sure about his knowledge of social etiquette. "Shouldn't someone go after him?"
The room, as one, turns to Banner as Stark's designated 'ScienceBro'. The doctor shrugs, looking pained but resigned, his too-big suit jacket slipping over his shoulders. "If I go after him now, he'll do his level best to get rid of me or provoke a Hulk-sized incident. I'll track him down later and try to drag him out of whatever crazy emotional spiral he's currently going into by chucking a couple of difficult projects at him that he has to collaborate on. We've still got some research -well, I say some, more like we don't understand any of it beyond maybe a quarter of the basics- on Loki and his magic that's brain bending enough to yank anyone out of a funk."
"Speaking of the twins;" Steve asks with an admirable attempt at redirecting the room's attention from Stark, "their abilities?"
"He's got increased metabolism and improved homeostasis, her thing is neural electrical interfacing, telekinesis, mental manipulation..." I notice the blank looks on the faces of every hero in the room, and switch to a more simple explanation. "He's fast, and she's weird."
"So, a telepathic telekinetic and a speedster?" Barton looks concerned. "Those are some pretty powerful mutations. Hill, if you hadn't arrived when you did...we could've had another Dark Phoenix incident on our hands."
I exchange dark looks with both members of Strike Team Delta. The Dark Phoenix saga was not a fun time. Reasons not to trust Charles Xavier when he says all his students have their powers under control? Case in fucking point. You see how your boss likes it when Magneto rips up the Golden Gate Bridge with an (admittedly clever) pun, and then an 'evil' Jean Grey nearly destroys the planet, then dies (again) and comes back to life (again). I swear the entrance to mutant heaven isn't so much St. Peter's pearly gates as a revolving door; as soon as they're in, they're straight back down here again, causing havoc with my paperwork.
If the Maximoff twins are powerful enough to replicate that, which I strongly suspect they are... yeah, not good. For us, or for the planet.
"So," asks Thor, his stormy eyes wandering back to stare at the extremely powerful kids sitting behind the observation glass, "what shall we do?"
"I'm going to go and talk to them." I say.
"You?"
"Me." I confirm sharply, before raising an eyebrow. "I'm not an Avenger, so they should be slightly more reasonable towards me, and I'm also highly trained in both interrogation and negotiation in case they are representing the Brotherhood of Mutants, HYDRA, or anyone else that's looking for a fight. Besides, I know them."
"You know them?!"
The other eyebrow moves towards my hairline and I fix all of the Avenger's with a sarky look. "I don't know why you sound so surprised; I know everyone."
And with that, I turn on my heel and, with a swipe of my card, walk into the Maximoff's cell, leaving a room full of superheroes staring after me.
Daily dramatic exit count: 2. Target: 3.
I am so on this.
(*I*I*I*)
Two pairs of smoldering eyes glare up at me, hatred written in every line of the two figures handcuffed to the table in front of them, power-suppressing collars gleaming silver around their necks. To be fair to them, if I had superpowers, I wouldn't be impressed with anyone who took them away.
Then again, if I had superpowers, I wouldn't have been stupid enough to attack the Avengers.
Just saying.
"Wanda and Pietro Maximoff."
"We are aware of who we are," drawls Wanda, eyes flat and unimpressed.
"What we want to know," Pietro continues, "is who you are." In synchronisation the duo cock their heads to the left as if in question, expressions just the tiniest bit smug. They know exactly how disconcerting they are, and they revel in it.
Unfortunately for them, I've dealt with far worse than 'disconcerting'.
If Coulson were here, he'd waste time with pleasantries. Apologise for the cuffs, ask them about themselves, sweet-talk them into giving him every single piece of information he wanted without them even realising that the kindly middle-aged man chatting with them was ruthlessly exploiting everything they said. My methods of interrogation are a lot more straightforward. With kids, anyway. Because we don't torture kids.
I sit down across from them, the perfect image of someone who knows that they're a number and not a name. An agent, not a person. "Why don't you tell me about the day your parents died?"
"Why," spits Pietro, almost vibrating with anger, the change from the earlier eerie calm fast enough to make my head spin, "so you can gloat? Laugh? Be proud of what your country has done?"
"No?" I pause, sweeping my eyes between them as if waiting for a response I know won't be coming. Not yet, anyway. "Okay then. How about the day you were rescued?"
"What d-" Both of the twins stare at me in shocked realisation, jaws dropping and eyes widening. It would be comic, if not for the gravity of the situation.
"You," they whisper in synchronisation.
I smile without a trace of humour. "Me."
"How did you-"
"Are you not-"
"-save us-"
"-Sokovian-"
"-from that bomb-"
"-obviously-"
"-foreign spy-"
"-American."
"-American."
I look them straight in the eyes, first Wanda, and then Pietro. Brown eyes, then blue. They should've been completely different from each other, even if they are twins, but both pairs are world-weary, anger-ridden and full of distrust. They may be children in age, but they have seen more horror than most people ever will in their entire lifetime. Unfortunately for them, looking at them is like looking at myself in a mirror, and that's something I wouldn't wish on anyone. I feel some kind of connection with these kids, the kind that comes from saving someone's life at the risk of your own, and to be frank, I don't want all my hard work keeping them alive to go to waste.
"From all that, the fact I saved you from an unexploded bomb, the sheer coincidence that out of thousands of agents it's me sat in front of you now, the fact that I probably saved your lives once already today and that right now I'm trying to do it again, and all you care about is my nationality. I'm American, and it's the end of the world." I look up at the ceiling, silently asking every god I don't know personally for strength. "I hoped you'd be a little smarter than that."
"Americans killed our parents. Blew up our house. Destroyed our village. Gave arms to both sides in our war so that they could rape our neighbour and kill her child. We have seen families blown to pieces on mountainsides for 'smuggling' and watched our fledgling rebellion be torn apart by your so-called peace talks." The young woman opposite me speaks calmly, stating the facts as she sees them with an expression set like stone and a glare just as forbearing. "And you believe that we should not hold a grudge."
"Oh no, you can hold a grudge. In fact, I fully expect you to. Forgiveness is for people who can afford it, and forgetting is for idiots. But I want you to question what you think you know. Life isn't black and white, it's a grey scale." I point at myself to illustrate my point. "I'm American, and I saved your lives."
"And why, I wonder, were you in Sokovia in the first place?" Pietro spits his words quickly, like machine gun fire.
Like machine gun fire, I answer with my own volley. "I was on a mission -a S.H.I.E.L.D mission before you say anything, not an American one. I was staying in a house on your street, hell, I gave the chocolate I'd smuggled into the country to your mother after she sassed off a policeman who was determined to get into my bed one way or another. When your house went up…" I sigh, and resist the urge to run my hands through my hair, "I had orders not to draw attention to myself, but I reasoned that it wouldn't hurt to help dig through the rubble. The police weren't there, nor the fire service -they were just stretched too thin. Just me, and your neighbours, digging with our hands and the odd garden shovel. We were looking for bodies when we heard you shout a warning about the unexploded bomb. I'd never contravened a direct order from the Director before, but you were just kids and there was no-one else around who could even begin to disable a bomb." I smile wryly. "We thought we'd only find corpses, but instead we found you two clinging to life with all the determination on God's earth. How could I not help?"
Their hostility seems softened, but not gone. Good. I would have thought less of them if they gave up on their cause so easily, even if it would make my life easier.
Wanda speaks again, but this time, it's softer, more like a real question than an accusation, even with the heat behind it. "And why did your S.H.I.E.L.D think adding yet another foreign spy to the mix would help our country in the slightest?"
"Or, let me guess," Pietro raises a scornful silver eyebrow, "you did not think your presence would help Sokovia in the slightest. And you did not care."
"Or perhaps I was a low ranking agent, who didn't know the full picture but trusted in my superiors enough to follow orders in the belief that what I was doing would help both Sokovia and the world. I got told to lay low and integrate myself with the locals, so I did. I got told to find my way into the Free Sokovian Army, so I did. I got told to disrupt their activities for as long as possible, so I blew up their entire weapons stockpile and poisoned their water supply." Both of them smile appreciatively, and then try to hide them behind frowns. But I saw them. That explosion rocked the whole mountain range and the capital city: it was a good day's work, even if I do say so myself.
"That did not stop them though, the Free Sokovian Army." This time, Wanda's smile is bitter and small. "They are not free, or Sokovian. Russians mostly, from the Kremlin and the KGB. Or at least they were, before they...disappeared."
"It was so distressing," Pietro continues, "especially when the vast majority of the Grand European Alliance disappeared off the face of the earth on the same day. Honestly, it was as though someone just wanted to make our country safer and free it from the two warring parties that had been destroying it between them for over a decade." He grins then, a cheeky, mischievous grin that's razor sharp around the edges, a smile so similar to Barton's that I almost do a double-take. "Whoever it was, I would very much like to clap them on the back."
"And I would like to slap them upside the head for being a stupid, reckless idiot." The two siblings glare at each other with no real anger, and that is all I, or anyone else with half a brain, needs to know to understand the situation.
22 years old, orphaned, traumatised by war. Survivors, the world's first man-made mutants, and -apparently- the reason why Sokovia's civil war recently went very quiet. I don't say it often, but I'll say it now: I am damn impressed. "I didn't hear that. In fact, it wasn't even recorded." I glare pointedly up at the camera in the corner of the room and through it to the ISO (Internal Security Operative) who will -if they know what's good for them- delete that particular few seconds of footage. "But if I had heard it, I would cheerfully applaud those people. Sometimes, politics stops S.H.I.E.L.D from doing what we plan to, but I think those people just unknowingly carried out our plan anyway. Good for them, protecting their country from the insurgents tearing it apart. Now charities can begin sending in more aid without placing their volunteers in as much danger, and S.H.A.P.E should have enough wriggle room to clear out the rest of the bastards. The actions of those people will probably have further reaching effects than they could've hoped for, especially if I have anything to do with it. Such bravery, daring and sheer idiocy deserve rewards after all, but since I obviously don't know who those people are, S.H.I.E.L.D will have to settle for helping Sokovia instead."
The twins look at each other, disbelief turning into wary hope in their faces. Pietro smiles first, 'I told you so' written all over his lopsided grin and raised silver eyebrows, and Wanda, as I suspect she always does, follows, the resigned twitch of her lips displaying 'maybe you were right, idiot' as clear as any banner, in the manner known to the sensible sibling everywhere.
"Maybe, if we ever meet again, you can tell me some more about those people and how you suspect they accomplished taking out both sides of a civil war between them." What? I do have files to compile after all; I need to know these things. And if those files disappear into the area accessible only to me, well, no-one needs to know that they ever existed in the first place, now do they?
"This is great and everything, like very great," Pietro tugs against his cuffs and lets them jangle against the table for emphasis, "but can you please take these off now. I've been reduced to the pace of a snail and it is driving me crazy. I honestly do not know how any of you people deal with it."
"Somehow, I really don't think that's going to happen, do you?" I say, and Pietro slumps in his seat, disappointed and churlish. "I still have questions, questions that need truthful answers if you ever want to get out of here."
They exchange looks, silent communication passing between them. "Continue," Wanda says, "we are listening."
"HYDRA." The word makes them both flinch and shift closer to each other protectively, and if they had their hands free, I would bet good money that Pietro would pull his sister into a hug. "They gave you your powers-"
Wanda's expression closes down and Pietro's voice trembles with emotion, his accent getting thicker and thicker with every word. "Gave us? HYDRA gave us nothing. When we signed up, no, when I signed up and persuaded Wanda to follow me, we thought we were signing up for S.H.I.E.L.D. We thought we were signing up to save our country. We thought, I thought, we might become Sokovia's Captain America. They told us that they were the organisation who gave him his powers, and that they could do the same for us. We thought we were signing up to be heroes." His voice quietens, and his blue eyes drop to the table. "We signed up for hell."
"During our…" Wanda scowls, and clicks her fingers impatiently. "I do not know your word for this. Education, but it is...it was unpleasant. And wrong."
"Indoctrination," I supply, with a voice far softer than I want it to be.
Wanda nods in thanks, but she still looks haunted. "During our indoctrination was the first time we discovered who was experimenting on us. HYDRA. Nazis. We are Eastern Europeans -those scum killed our countrymen and used our lands to kill innocent men, women and children in their camps for nothing more than their religion. When we found out, we fought. We all fought. We started with twelve, but there were only seven left by that stage. After we fought back, there were only four." Angrily, she wipes a tear away on her shoulder, her bound hands unable to do the job. Her brother looks at her, agony both at the memories and his sister's pain gleaming in his eyes and evident in the way he leans as close to her as his restraints will allow.
"We did not know their names; we cannot even pray for them. In the end, three of us developed powers. Myself, Wanda, and a boy named Raphael. He was perhaps twelve," Pietro draws in a shaky breath, "and a devout Catholic. He was just like us: orphaned, alone and patriotic. Desperate. But too young. He was so, very young." His voice cracks over the last word. "He died during the final tests. We could hear him screaming. For a pause. For help." He's whispering now. "For us."
"We weren't supposed to communicate, but my telepathy, and our twin bond...we promised each other right then that we'd play along. Conform to the tests. Run faster. Break more. And then," Wanda draws herself up straighter, shoulders back and head held high, "when we had the chance...we swore to destroy them. And so we did."
"There are no records of a HYDRA facility in Sokovia." My brain whirs. All the chaos, the improbability of the continuous civil war bubbling on and on and on, even when both factions were totally routed...could HYDRA have been causing them all along? Had the suffering of millions been no more than an elaborate distraction? And worse, had we fallen for it?
"Well, there isn't much of a facility left, but you can put the rubble in your records if you like." Pietro smiles his Barton smile again, all sharp corners and dangerous mirth.
"Who was in charge of the facility?" Under the table, I cross my fingers. Please don't be Viper, please don't be Viper. I can live with a lot of things. If something is necessary, it's necessary. But whatever Viper did in all those years I failed to catch her? Each and every thing she did is on my hands. And what happened to the Maximoff twins? To tiny Raphael? To the whole of Sokovia?
I'm not sure I can live with that.
"He was a German. Called Baron von Strucker."
The tension drops from my shoulders. It wasn't Viper. It wasn't me.
"Of course," I say, and thank god my voice sounds as firm as it normally does, because I can't go and show weakness now, "the last remaining Nazi. Cap will be pleased. S.H.I.E.L.D will be pleased; we've been looking for that bastard for decades. Alright, next question. How did HYDRA give you -sorry- your powers?"
"We lived in cells, separate from each other, for months. Their scientists came and went as they pleased -we did not. At first it was benign things they wanted: tissue samples, muscle samples, family histories. These things, we gave willingly. After, it was tests. Endurance tests, intelligence measurements, survival instincts. These things, we gave out of fear, once we learnt what they did to those who failed. In hindsight, at this stage, it is obvious that they were weeding out the weak." There's no self pity in Pietro's voice, only cold, as if he can freeze out the pain. Numb himself to it.
Wanda picks up the narrative. "This was the stage when there were seven of us left, when they began 'teaching' us the 'real' truth. This was when we fought against them. This was when our number was cut down to four. We didn't fight again. How could we? We were far too busy surviving the next round of tests."
"They came in the night, then, dragging us out of our cells and tossing us into a strange room like so much rubbish. I was so happy -I had my sister in my arms for the first time in eternity, and she did not hate me, even though I had failed her so badly." Wanda smiles softly at her brother, forgiveness radiating from every pore. She doesn't try to negate his guilt, or dissuade him from owning it. She simply forgives him, and that makes it all the sweeter. "But then they filled the room with a strange gas, and then lowered something unearthly into the room. From what I could make out, it was long, like a stick, with a glowing blue stone on the end."
Like a stick? Like a sceptre. Icy air washes over me. Loki's sceptre.
When was the last time anyone checked the Freezer?
"I could not see much," Pietro continues, a mirthless smile sliding onto his features, "because I was busy screaming in agony. But I can tell you that it drove the fourth experiment mad, whatever it was, so mad that they had to put her down like a rabid dog. And so, there were three of us left, all with superpowers. Myself, Wanda, and Raphael."
"What could Raphael do?" I feel slightly bad questioning the twins about the dead little boy who suffered alongside them, but I need to know the full extent of what Loki's sceptre can do to people. What powers it can give them.
"As he put it, Hell had given him Heaven's wrath flowing through his veins. He was like Raphael, the archangel -the Wrath of God." Wanda can't stop the tears now, and has all but given up on wiping them on her jacket. She's smiling through it though -quoting this lost friend of hers is obviously reminding her of at least one fond memory.
"He was a pyrokinetic." I assert, and I know I'm right when no correction comes. Three unusually strong mutations out of three. What are the chances? Either HYDRA had somehow managed to pick out three people with extremely strong latent X-genes, something I don't understand at all is going on here, or we are in very big trouble. Possibly all three. "I'm sorry for interrupting, I know this must be hard. Please, continue."
"Developing powers was not enough for HYDRA. No, they wanted to know how we had gained our powers, how they worked, their limits, and how they could weaponise them. Even in Sokovia we saw and heard what Magneto put on television about the horrors of mutant testing facilities." Wanda's gaze turns distant. "It was much like that, really. What I wouldn't have given for Magneto to have come tearing through the walls to save us, too."
I take that as my cue to leave. I point blank refuse to sit here and defend a supervillain/terrorist/ general asshole as to why he didn't save the very people he should have been saving. Who cares if they were born mutants, or made into them? They're still mutants. "Thank you for answering my questions. If there's nothing else-"
"Actually, there is something else."
"Something that will probably be important to you."
"If you put Stark within our reach-"
"-we will kill him in the same way we killed Strucker."
The twins lock eyes with me, eyes narrowed in promise. "They are the same type of man, after all."
"Once, I would've agreed with you there. God, Stark was the biggest pain in my ass when I first started rising through S.H.I.E.L.D's ranks; it seemed like everywhere I looked his weapons were being used to do something terrible. I held him personally responsible in fact, just like you do. But then I found out something, something that changed my whole viewpoint. Stark didn't know. He didn't know about the underground market for his weapons, he didn't know they were being sold under the table to the highest bidder. He thought, as he was designing them, that they were saving lives."
"Ignorance is not innocence." Pietro's voice is sure, but all the anger has dropped out of the siblings' bodies. It's hard to realise that the face of your anger might not be as guilty as you thought, but these two are smart enough to not hold unfounded grudges. At least, that's what I'm hoping.
"It's not, you're right. But ever since he found out, he's been risking his own life to try and make amends. Iron Man? That's the only weapon he manufactures nowadays, and he destroys the caches of his illegally sold merchandise wherever he finds them. What happened to you? Right now, he's tearing himself up about it, that I can guarantee you." I hold up a hand as they both open their mouths to interject. "I know he should feel guilty about it, and I know that's the least he should do. But he's doing something, and that's more than most people on this damn planet."
"We will consider your words."
"And I'll consider yours. Now," I flash a genuine smile, "as I see it, you have two choices from here on out. One, you continue to cooperate, and since the Avengers inevitably won't press charges, you can return home and continue running your resistance movement, but this time with as much help as we can surreptitiously give you."
I wait a few seconds for dramatic effect. Pietro obviously can't wait that long, and obliges by asking, "And our second choice?"
My grin grows wider. "Well, I'm sure Captain America and the rest of the Avengers will want to speak to you."
"Us?" Surprise crosses their features, followed by fear and suspicion. "Why?"
"To talk to you about the Avengers Initiative of course."
Two jaws drop simultaneously, but before the questions can begin to spill out of them, I stand up and walk smoothly out of the room. The Avengers immediately stare at me, expressions ranging from distress at the experimentation (Banner) to approval at their destruction of HYDRA (Rogers) to understanding of what they've been through (Natasha). Barton mainly looks confused as to what to feel, like he's just lost a lot of money to the S.H.I.E.L.D betting pool about the probability of new Avengers, and isn't too happy about it, but also thinks these kids are gonna be great fun.
My emotions are split. On one hand, whatever the Maximoff twins decide to do, they'll do it well. Anyone ballsy enough to attack all of the Avengers at once on their home turf, and smart enough to actually make a pretty good job of it, will do fine in this world. Saviours of a country, or Avengers. Pretty lofty ambitions, but they can make it together, I'm sure of it. On the other hand, whichever they choose, I'm sure it'll be a great big pain in the paperwork.
And, whichever they choose, I've got to go and talk to Stark.
Yipee.
The Avengers are still stood around staring at me with their varying looks of compassion/approval/empathy/irritated glee. Obviously, my dramatic exit from the Maximoff's cell was just that good. Three out of three dramatic exits, target complete. "Well, what are you waiting for?"
Rogers looks at me with furrowed eyebrows. "I can't believe you just gave us roundabout permission to adopt these two waifs and strays, even though we would've..." He trails off awkwardly.
"Asked them anyway?" Natasha raises one eyebrow in amusement. "Because Hill's smart. And she knows us. And she likes them."
"Hill likes them?" Barton pretends to faint in shock. "Hill doesn't like anyone!"
"Except paperwork." Barnes throws his hands in the air when the room turns to look at him, the metal one glinting under the light. "What, I can't make stupid jokes now? I call ageism."
"You're damn right grandpa." Barton flings a hand around the other assassin's shoulders and steers him into the Maximoff's cell. "C'mon, let's go. Hey, you can even tell these kids what it was like back in the good old days."
"Barton, I swear on Steve's spangly shield..."
Steve follows his teammates with a sigh and a grudging smile. "Buck, that line wasn't funny seventy years ago, and it still isn't now."
"I guess we'd better go and make sure there's some common sense in that room before the twins' brains start leaking out of their ears from all the mindless drivel. C'mon Bruce." Natasha beckons the scientist over, and together they leave the room.
And just like that, I'm alone with my thoughts.
Still better than talking to Stark though.
Ugh, this is gonna suck.
(*I*I*I*)
"Stark?" My voice drifts around the seemingly empty lab, disturbing the gentle humming of the equipment. If the scientists in the main lab hadn't told me he had coming running in here looking like he was about to puke an hour ago, I never would've thought to look in here. Stark is always so loud. This quiet, with him in it, is unnerving.
"Fuck off Hill."
I smirk to myself. Left side of the room, somewhere near the floor. "That's not how you should talk to a lady."
Stark harrumphs. "If you're a lady then I'm a goddamn porcupine." There, behind those workbenches in the furthest corner.
"Well, you sure are prickly enough." I round the corner and look down at the genius/billionaire/playboy/philanthropist sat leaning against the wall, curled up as though he wants to disappear. I cock a hip and rest my hand on it. "Found you."
Instead of reacting, the usually unstoppable bundle of energy just closes his eyes. "Can't you take a hint?"
"Can you? Because you and I are more similar than you might think." Moving to stand next to him, I slide down the workbench until my butt hits the floor, and swing my arms casually over my knees. This isn't my natural commanding position, but for this kind of talk it will have to do.
"Really?" He laughs dryly and without humour. "Did you find out you orphaned two kids today too? We must be twins." Stark winces at the poor choice of words, and stops talking.
'Stark' and 'stops talking' are two phrases I never thought I'd see apply to each other. And yet, here we are. The Merchant of Death, who has nightmares about the people he has killed, and the spy, who sends thousands of kill orders out everyday without even blinking. Sat side by side, one riddled with guilt like bullet holes, and the other unyielding like diamond. Both of them are guilty. And yet only one of them feels it.
"I orphan children everyday Stark."
"Yeah, but that's necessary, right?" I must look startled, because he smirks in spite of himself. "C'mon Hill, it's practically your catchphrase: "I do what's necessary'. But was it necessary that my weapons -the weapons I made my fortune on, the weapons I designed myself- killed innocent civilians? Of course it wasn't. God, how can I have been so fucking stupid? What kind of genius does that make me."
"A guilty one." His head snaps up to stare at me, eyes wide and full of hurt. "Look, you know me: I don't sugarcoat. I'm gonna tell you like it is, and you're gonna know it's the truth, and not some useless attempt to placate you or make you feel better. That's why I'm here, and not Pepper or Rhodey or one of the Avengers. Me and you, we don't even like each other. Heck, if you weren't my business, I wouldn't give a shit. But you are my business, so listen the fuck up. These two kids, they think they hate you, America, and every single foreigner that's ever even thought about Slokovia. But what they really hate is that missile, and the company that built it. You aren't your company Stark, you can't be responsible for every single one of your employees and their actions. You can't stop Bob in Marketing cheating on his wife because he got too big for his boots after a pay rise anymore than you can stop Jimmy in R&D building a dangerous lab in his kitchen and poisoning his own stupid ass. You wouldn't know about these things until the situation imploded. Same with your weapons. When you found out, you immediately tried to stop Obadiah Stane, and he nearly killed you for it."
"Some days I think I deserved that."
"Deserved what, nearly dying? Yeah, maybe you did. But the key emphasis there is on nearly. You are alive, Tony Stark. What would dying -really dying- have solved? You can't make amends from the afterlife." I smack him on the shoulder when his eyes drop to the floor, and glare at him until -reluctantly- he meets my gaze. "But here and now, you can apologise to those kids, say 'I'm sorry for the pain I and my company have caused you' and explain what happened. They won't forgive you, they shouldn't have to forgive you; forgiveness isn't obligatory. But show them you're sorry. Help Sokovia. Help every nation you bombed, and not just as Iron Man. Iron Man, to be frank, is for you. Invest more in the Maria Stark Foundation, spread it everywhere and let it do everything for the people that need its help. And don't get Pepper or J.A.R.V.I.S to handle it. Do it yourself."
Stark tries desperately to smile in his usual carefree way, but it's far too shaky to be convincing. "You're pretty good at this feelings stuff, for the Ice Queen."
I could make a sharp comment, just like I normally would, but now is not the time. I want to, don't get me wrong. But Stark has been taken down enough pegs already today. Very, very occasionally, I don't mind helping people haul themselves back up one. "I had to learn something from Phil after far too many years of being partners. Otherwise it would've been inefficient."
He snorts, real amusement sneaking through his self pity for the first time. "'Inefficient'? Does everything you say sound like a goddamn robot spat it out first, or is it just me."
"You've seen the S.H.I.E.L.D betting pool on me being a cyborg," I reply, "and it's a pretty big pool. You know it's not just you that thinks that."
"What, you're saying that you know about the betting pools, and they're still around?" Stark's tone is the perfect blend of genuine surprise and flat out teasing.
"Don't be dense. The S.H.I.E.L.D betting pools have been around long before I arrived, and will be thriving long after I've gone." I pause for a second or two. "But I might have contributed to them. A lot."
"Maria Hill, breaking rules? Well I never."
"Technically," I say primly, which is pretty difficult when you're sat slouching on the floor, "there are no explicit rules against the betting pools."
"And if there was a rule?"
"Then so many agents would get fired for betting in them anyway that there wouldn't be a S.H.I.E.L.D left to enforce the rules."
"Tell me something true about yourself." The command comes suddenly, without warning, and seemingly out of nowhere. I look at Stark, one raised eyebrow demanding that he explain himself. "Aw c'mon, you probably know my entire life story down to what grades I got at school, and I know zip about you. You talk straight until anyone asks anything about you, and then you talk in so many circles that they get dizzy and drop off. Like right then: you just evaded everything I asked you so neatly I barely noticed it, and I'm pretty well versed in bullshit. I can't trust that."
I take a deep breath. He wants the truth? Fine, he can have it. Doesn't mean I can't still turn it to my advantage though. "Before I was in S.H.I.E.L.D-"
"You were in a test tube experiment to create the perfect agent?"
I glare at him until his self-satisfied smirk dies a little on his face, framed by that stupid goatee. 'I'll take that as a compliment and try to resist the urge to rip off your head for interrupting me. Now, before I was in S.H.I.E.L.D, I was in the Marines. This seventeen year old titch in a squad with thirteen huge, burly ex-soldiers and only one other woman between them." I try my best not to let the memories overwhelm me as I talk about my old squad, try to keep my expression unreadable and my voice level. My time in the Marines did not end well -in my life, things rarely do. "They were great, I had the time of my life in training and in our early missions; we were like a little family. But that's not the..." I force a shaky breath out through my teeth, "that's not the point I'm trying to make. Like all good soldiers, we played poker, and we didn't play for money. Better chores, favourable shifts, hot showers were all up for grabs. But the highest prize of all was being the first squad to try out the new Stark weaponry. Benji and I were the King and Queen of poker, the dream team everyone wanted to beat but no-one could. God, those were the days." I turn to the superhero next to me, and fix him as best I can with a truly earnest look. "Nowadays I think you only get to hear about the harm your weapons have done, but Stark, they also saved lives. Hammer tech?"
He snorts derisively, real disgust evident in the scrunching of his nose and the curling of his lip. "Pieces of shit."
"Exactly. And he's completely taking over the weapons market after you backed out. When I was in Marines and we underwent budget cuts, we had to deal with Hammer tech for three months." Stark and I share a shudder. "Grenades exploding in people's faces, missiles backfiring, target systems firing on our own troops...there were hardened Marines who would kill you as soon as shake your hand practically crying with joy when they finally got that first shipment of Stark tech back. And now? What choice does the army have but to buy Hammer tech?"
The billionaire looks thoughtful now, the self-hatred diminished in his expression, overtaken by the shrewd plotting he has always been good at (even if he pretends otherwise). I took what Banner said about distracting him with science, changed it around to something I understood, and put my plan into action. And it worked perfectly -where's that depressed spiral of self-loathing now? Nowhere, that's where. Who says Romanoff is the only master manipulator around here?
"So, ignoring the whole mushy backstory reminiscing, what I'm saying is that yes, your weapons have done bad things. Yes, you need to work to fix that. But think about the good things they've done too. Think about why you started revolutionising the weapons market originally," I see him open his mouth to interrupt but intercept him before he can even get the first syllable out, "and don't give me that bullshit about just being greedy, because I can read body language well enough to know you actually believed some of the 'American dream' bullshit you used to spew all over the news." He closes his mouth, and I resist the urge to smirk smugly. Not the time Hill, not the time. "The knee jerk reaction of stopping producing weapons is the easy way out. So use that big brain of yours and figure out a better solution to all this. Understood?"
"Yes ma'am." He snaps a languid salute, all sarcastic smile and relaxed edges, but his eyes tell a different story. Brown irises speak all the heartfelt thank you's that Stark can't, or won't, say out loud.
"Right then." I haul myself to my feet and hold out a hand to help up the billionaire, who takes it without a second's hesitation. "I need to get out of here pronto before anyone sees us being all cosy together and the S.H.I.E.L.D rumour mill starts spouting theories like crazy. And I don't know about you, but I am very scared of your girlfriend."
"Pepper? She wouldn't believe any rumour that there was anything going on between us." Stark shakes his head in disbelief, his nose scrunched up in a way that would be offensive if it wasn't so welcome. If there's one thing I don't need in my life, it's some egotistical attempt by a bored billionaire to seduce me. Thank god he's so in love with Pepper.
Nevertheless, I raise an eyebrow. "With your reputation?"
"With yours?" he shoots straight back, mirroring my expression.
I blink, not understanding his insinuation. "My reputation?"
"Oh come off it Hill, you and I both know that you'd eat me -and any other guy or girl that tried to flirt with you- alive. Pepper knows it too, she's got some kind of radar for this kind of thing." He grins widely, white teeth flashing in that extraordinarily famous smile. "Besides, you have way too little patience to put up with my bullshit."
I fix him with a long, flat look. "I haven't shot you yet, have I?" Noticing a figure in the doorway, I turn to face it, and -recognising Banner fiddling awkwardly with his ill-fitting suit collar- nod politely. "Banner."
The scientist politely inclines his head in return. "Hill."
"Right, I'll leave you boys to it. Have fun, and try not to put anymore holes in my ship. Oh, and Stark?" We lock eyes, both the billionaire and the spy for once wearing open, honest expressions. "Use that big brain of yours."
"Whatever you say Hill, whatever you say."
(*I*I*I*)
Three days later I find myself standing on the platform high above Training Room C, the room empty of its usual high level agents and is instead stuffed to the brim with Avengers. For some reason Captain Rogers seems to think that my invitation to allow the twins to join the team also extended to James 'Rhodey' Rhodes aka War Machine and Sam Wilson aka Falcon, both of whom will need immediate file updates and a thorough background check before I'll even consider okaying that decision, but...I suppose we'll see.
A silver blur dashes haphazardly around the room, a delighted voice with a strong Sokovian accent crying out, "Hit me Barton, you know that you want to!" The archer follows the blur avidly, his intense focus evident in his icy cool stare, a boxing glove arrow strung on his bow. He draws in a deep breath and lets the arrow fly, breaking out into a huge, taunting grin when a surprised yell echoes around the room as Pietro is sent sprawling on his ass, looking none too happy about it.
Wanda is close to her twin, as she always is, slowly working through various basic martial arts moves with Natasha, a frown of concentration on the young mutant's face. When Wanda performs a move perfectly, landing the Black Widow herself on her back, a low word of congratulation passes between them, and the younger woman lights up like a Christmas tree at the praise.
Rogers is putting Falcon through a tough workout, throwing his famous shield again and again at the flying hero, forcing him to duck and dive and utilise his every fancy move, sweat shining brightly on his forehead under the harsh lights. The Captain occasionally yells up a comment, and whether instruction or compliment the black man always has a ready prepared sassy answer. And that quality alone recommends Falcon greatly; there aren't many people in this world who can fight Captain America and still have enough breath left over for a running commentary. At the memory of my own confrontation with Rogers I rub my neck ruefully, the phantom pain almost causing me to wince.
The loud clang of something hard striking metal sounds, drawing my eyes to where Thor is loudly declaring the end of a 'glorious training match' to War Machine, slapping his partner heartily on the back. The armoured man stumbles forward a few steps even in his suit, but his faceplate is up and his grin is huge, his eyes sparkling as Rhodes surveys the decimated circle of training drones around them.
The room is certainly not an oasis of calm, more like a cacophony of noise, but it's a happy, productive sort of noise, and that's the best kind of noise there is.
And then Stark enters the room, flanked by a nervous looking Banner who's biting his lip even more than normal, and everything falls deadly quiet. Uh oh. This smells like trouble.
Pietro speeds to his sister's side, both of their faces flat and unwelcoming and radiating 'don't talk to us' like there's no tomorrow. Which, if this goes the wrong way, there might be. In fact, as Stark slowly but surely approaches the twins, no tomorrow is looking more and more like a distinct possibility.
The fact that Stark isn't wearing his suit is putting him in considerable danger, which Rhodes obviously realises straight away as he zooms to his long time charge's -and best friend's- side, but it also gives me hope that Stark is genuinely taking this seriously. Iron Man is cocky, self-sure and frankly very irritating. Tony Stark, on the other hand, while possessing all of those qualities, is also kind, honest and willing to admit he has made mistakes.
The twins are visibly simmering with anger by the time Stark comes to a halt in front of them and begins to speak in a low, sincere tone.
I'll tell you this now: all those people wishing to be a fly on the wall? They don't know shit. I'm literally hanging on the wall, and I can't hear a damn word. Sure, I can lipread the occasional phrase, but Stark has his back to me and is the one doing the vast majority of the talking.
But although I can't hear the conversation, I can see it's effects. The Maximoff twins begin to share contemplative looks as Stark speaks, which develop into brief flashes of reluctant understanding. Stark, on his part, begins to untense as he sees this positive reception, getting more into the flow of his apologies and plans, making expansive hand gestures as he explains.
When Wanda takes her brother's hand and says something to Stark in a low, quiet tone, huge brown eyes stunning in their intensity, I know the outcome of the conversation -whatever that outcome is- has been reached.
When Pietro spits something, blue eyes blazing, I worry it's the wrong result.
But when Stark turns back towards my vantage point, a small but genuine smile lighting up his face, I see a man with the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. And that is when I know that everything will be alright.
At least for a little while.
(*I*I*I*)
Midnight phone calls for most people are either the result of nefarious dealings, or the result of a pain-in-the-ass sales company.
S.H.I.E.L.D agents are not normal people.
"You're doing so well with them Maria, I always said you'd make a great Handler if it came down to it."
"Temporary Handler," I correct my partner. "Honestly Phil, you make it sound like I didn't get the job by default."
"Default?" Phil chuckles down the line. "More like because you're the only not-recently-deceased agent that they'll even listen to. Remember me and Barton in the beginning? How I was the only one he'd listen to; how I'm still one of only three, perhaps four people he'll listen to? You know that was the pure and simple reason why I got made his Handler, why I'm still his Handler. The Avengers listen to you Hill, and that's all you can ask."
"I could ask for them to be less of a gigantic pain in my ass," I grumble, knowing fully well that Phil's right, as he always is, but not quite wanting to give up on my complaining rights.
"Please, you think you have problems? Can you remember the shitstorm that went down when Barton brought the Black Widow herself onto the base, or do I need to remind you? I think a minor scuffle between two man-made, HYDRA-grown mutants with lifelong grudges against the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist superhero in your charge is...actually, no, that's still pretty spectacular." Phil laughs with no sympathy in his tone, the sound mocking me through the secure line. I can imagine him now, sat with his feet on his desk, his head holding the phone on his right shoulder as his hands fiddle with his model of Lola, and a huge dirty great big grin on his face. Bastard.
"Thanks Phil. Really making me feel better."
"Aw, chin up Hill. Think of it this way. You have superheroes, real life goddamn superheroes on your side, and you're one of them." He laughs breathily, incredulousness in every syllable at the improbability of the situation, and I have to smile at it too. Superheroes? Three years ago, that would have been an impossible scenario, the one thing S.H.I.E.L.D had no plans for. But now? Now superheroes are my life, my everyday, my job. Perhaps even my friends.
"Okay, okay, you got me. It is pretty cool. I'm still looking for a live-in though -I point blank refuse to take that step and I can't leave Pepper to manage a tower full of superheroes by herself forever. But until I find a bastard crazy enough to sign up for that position and all the hell it would entail, I guess I'm stuck as the Avengers' Handler."
"You have been, and will continue to be, great." Phil assures me, tone soft and fuzzy around the edges, like a comfort blanket. "Now go get some sleep. FitzSimmons are attempting to make pancakes and I can hear the screaming from here. I think they've managed to make them radioactive. Oh, and now I can here Skye screaming 'they're alive!' at the top of her lungs." He sighs. "I guess we both have our problematic teams."
"You think yours is problematic? Call me when an argument over who ate the last poptart can flatten New York." My tone softens, my smile warm. My partner is the best man on earth. "Night Phil."
"Goodnight Maria." The line shuts off with a dull click, and I recline back onto my pillows, eyes closing.
So maybe the Avengers will self-implode tomorrow and destroy the planet. Maybe one of them will get injured on a mission, or worse. Maybe they'll continue to hand in terrible paperwork.
But maybe they'll continue to work better together. Maybe their arguments will become calm and routine, full of nostalgia instead of anger. Maybe they'll become a family.
And maybe, I'll get to enjoy a small piece of it, too.
This was written because too many fics have the Avengers playing happy families ten seconds after Ultron is defeated, with no confrontation between the Maximoff twins and Tony. Really fandom? Really? Also Tony and weapons...gah. Come talk to me about it. Seriously, I have a lot to say on the subject, though I think I conveyed my thoughts pretty well up there.
Thank you to anyone that has read all of this gargantuan story up until now, all those that will read it in the future, and a special thanks to anyone that has ever dropped a review.
And with that, I will once more ask: Review?
