Coulson had been wounded in the Battle of New York. At least, that's what everybody was calling it. I didn't think that anything so horrible should get such a simple name. It's not like the words "New York" instilled terror in the hearts of men. He had been on the same helicarrier as the prisoner that SHIELD tried to restrain. Apparently, the prisoner didn't want to be restrained, because instead of quiet cooperation, he tried to take down the entire plane. The only thing that I know about this prisoner? A name. No history, no files, no face to fit the name. I had tried to gain access to those files shortly after the battle. A Level Seven clearance was needed to even glimpse at the basic stuff.

Those that had inside information intended to keep it secret. Records had been wiped clean. The database had been scourged, without a byte of evidence of what had transpired that fated day when hell rained down on New York City in the form of fallen buildings, flying shrapnel, and dancing sparks all tossed about crudely by the wind and the almost magnetic pull of what had been a portal from a netherworld to our home planet. I could remember the day all too clearly. My thoughts wandered from the thrumming of the helicopter blades, and let the memories come back.

It was early when I got the call. I was stationed at one of the many small headquarter branches spread out over the East Coast, and it wasn't the usual tone of my morning alarm that woke me from my light slumber, but shouting, anger mixed with fear, mass pandemonium outside of my small cell room door. My sleeping quarters were extremely small, allowing just enough space on the bare metal floor for a dresser, a little hygiene station and a bed. No windows allowed any light in, and my bed covers were a sterile white over a cold metal frame, pillows soft but encased in a scratchy sort of material that only flattened out after a few uncomfortable nights. The sink would have been almost adorable in its minute size, had it not yet again been metal. Everything in this facility was metal.

I threw the covers from my legs, letting the cool air settle over my newly exposed limbs for only a second before I slid from the hard mattress and to the metal-paneled floor. My lungs filled with the smell of iron, and a sharp shot of cold coursed up my legs from my feet where they met the chilled metal causing me to inhale sharply. It felt like someone was running cold water up my shins. Taking the few steps necessary to get to my door, a solid panel that slid in and out of the wall, and guiding my fingers through the electric combination lock that sealed the entrance, I stepped out into the alien world in nothing but my night clothes.

Screams. That was the first thing that my brain registered. Noise clouded my ears, machines making their screeching alarms blare, and over and over again, the sound repeating and grinding on my eardrums: warning…warning…warning.

Everything had dissolved into a pool of chaos. Agents were running all over the place through the narrow hall that my room forked from, some in their uniforms, some half-dressed, others like myself in hardly anything other than thin linens that formed loose shirts and straight legged pants in a navy fabric. One thing was common in every last one of them, though. That panic, that air of disturbance that I knew I also carried. No one had any idea what was going on. That was the worrisome thing, the strain ignorance and being isolated only making matters worse. From amidst the scrambling agents came a familiar face. Ronan was his name, and he had led me in hand-to-hand combat, as well as gun tactics. He was a tall man, strong and muscled all over, dark skinned with wiry hair that was beginning to look like steel wool, frosted silver at the tips. To my surprise, he was already in full combat gear. His dark uniform had been replaced with the garb of a heavily armed field operative. A belt hung at his waist, and he had strapped an enormous gun to his back. It looked too large to even be allowed, but the gun gave me no reassurance. All it contributed to was my growing sense of fear. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong indeed.

The massive gunman took me by the shoulder and hurried me along the tide of rushing people. It was by sheer luck that I was not swept away. Or, it could have been the grip of iron that Ronan kept on my shoulder.

"What's going on?" I demanded as he pulled me into another room, this one being larger, a storage room for extra field outfits. "Ronan, what the heck is happening?"

"Director's been on coms with me, kid." His voice was deep and reassuring but now the deep baritone of the man had become more of an ill omen instead of a Hail Mary pass. He called me 'kid' like Coulson did, in the same sort of endearing way, like they had taken ownership over my personal safety. He wordlessly threw a uniform about my size at my chest, and I bundled the cloth against my chest. I looked at it skeptically. "Put it on. Quickly. I won't look. Just make it fast."

"I don't—"

"I have orders from Fury, kid. You're coming with me. New York is under attack. No one has any idea what the blazes is going on, and right now the only orders I have are from Fury himself. He said we have to protect the civilians. That's our only mission until further notice and some things clear up. Now put on your suit and grab a gun. I hope that you never have to use it in live action, but your day will come, just as mine did. It always does."

With that, he spun around on his heel, giving me a good view of the impressive piece of warfare he had strapped to his back as I hastily yanked my navy sleeping clothes off and pulled the black skintight pants on, hating the way that they clung to every curve on my figure. I hated drawing attention to myself, but the slick design of the suit made one much more aerodynamic and stealthy. The black leather jacket went over it, and I grinned despite myself. I had made it clear that I preferred a leather top to a stretchy spandex one, simply because while still being soft, it was a much more resilient material. Soft soled boots went on last, and I managed to comb my long tangles back with my fingers.

"I'm all set, Ronan," I told him as I shifted uncomfortably in the new clothing. Ronan about faced, and once again clasped a hand to my shoulder. I was steered back into the hallway of chaos, wondering what was happening. My feet made little noise on the slick flooring tiles. We made our way out of the hallway and into a small hanger where a stash of one-man fighter planes as sleek as bullets and carriers that allowed for a few men to work as a crew. Ronan made a beeline for one of those larger planes. I trailed hesitantly, not having any idea what I was getting myself into. For once, I did not welcome a surprise. I used to be the first to volunteer, but now this fear behind the mask of another drill procedure had my palms itching.

My heart pounded as the alarms wailed overhead and I was dragged aboard the plane along with five other agents, all of these young men, the best in my gun tactics class. Apparently, I had been voted the best in my all-female lessons. I was the only one of Ronan's girl students present. Next to me in the passengers' section of the plane sat a tall gangly youth with a mop of wild ginger curls. He was twiddling his thumbs, and kept casting the occasional glance at the giant gun that Ronan now had on his lap. He sat on the same side as me, and across from our row on the other side of the plane's belly was a boy with close-cropped blonde hair and a crooked nose, probably from being broken, and two others with russet locks and freckles so identical they had to be twins. I knew none of their names.

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" I whispered to the gangly boy next to me. He looked up from his vigorous thumb twiddling and gave me a hopeless stare.

"I know just as much as you," he sighed. "Assuming, that is, that Ronan herded you up, forced you to get dressed in field gear, and then follow him?"

"Pretty much," I replied, groaning softly as I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling. I leaned forward then and rested my forearms on my thighs. "What's your name?"

He seemed surprised that I was being so forward. It was obvious that most of the female agents clustered together like they would have, out in the streets in great haggles. However, I normally found them shallow and settled for the intelligent human being instead of the giggling hoards. On this plane, I got the strange feeling that getting to know these boys of about my age would be valuable to my future. I also didn't want to be alone during what could very likely be a terrorist attack. From the way that everyone was acting though, this couldn't be a simple act of terror. We were running like it was life or death.

"Nathaniel," he murmured.

I swallowed as the plane hatch closed and the engine was started, a whirling roar slipping quickly through the internal structure of the metal bird. "Nice to meet you Nathaniel," I nearly shouted over the sound of takeoff protocols. "I'm Kane."

A half smile came over Nathaniel's lips. "I know."

I raised an eyebrow. "What? How—?"

"Ronan talks about you all of the time," he explained, waving his hands. That was something that I had noticed about him; he talked using gestures a lot, as though they helped him convey the meanings of words. I found him easy to communicate with immediately. I was glad for some familiarity, because right then, it was all that was holding me together in this pit of insanity that all of us were falling into without a way out.

"All good things, I hope?" I joked.

He nodded. "Definitely. You're one of our best, aren't you? At least out of the younger group of us, that is. Sharpshooter Kane, Ronan calls you. Probably behind your back."

"I was planning on telling you," Ronan grumbled. He saw my skeptical expression and sighed resignedly. "Forget it." When he spoke again, his voice was louder and was directed at all of us in the plane. The boys and I turned our heads to face him as he debriefed us. Normally debriefing was done before the agent went out on the mission. This was an in-the-moment debrief, meaning that there was no time to be wasted. I just wanted to know what was happening. I hated being left in the dark. Even Ronan was not all that sure what we were up against, and that alone was enough to make any accomplished agent nervous. When the best of the best is clueless, things are going to get messy, and fast. "You five are my best at firearms, and also some of my best strategists. I chose you few to lead a section of people out of the northwest sector of the city. We wanted to keep you younger folk out of the range of the big guns. No matter how good you are right now, no matter what you think or where you want to be, you are not ready for the hell that you are going to go through sometime in your lives. We're taking you to the innermost section of your area where you will warn the locals. Tell them to spread the word. If they all head due north from their location, they will find that we have transport to take them all to the outskirts. So far, our men have managed to quarantine the fighting and most of the damage to a few city blocks."

"Your men?" the blonde boy interrupted. His brow was furrowed in confusion. "I thought that the main strike forces were spread all along the coast. Where did you manage to scrape up a sizeable offensive?"

Ronan sighed again, running a large veined hand through his wiry hair, causing it to stick up in bedraggled clumps. "Agent Natasha Romanov is part of this elite strike team. There are a few select others, totaling to six. The second is Barton, the third Doctor Bruce Banner, and the fourth Steve Rogers—formerly known as Captain America—the fifth Tony Stark, and finally, we managed to gain a little bit more extraterrestrial brawn. We have Thor of Asgard. Great guy. I hope that you all get the chance to meet him someday."

Nathaniel nodded. "What do they call themselves, these six?"

"Well, actually, nothing yet. They…aren't getting along as well as we would have hoped. They have very little in common other than the ultimate goal they all strive for, so their relationship as a team is still in the early developing stages. SHIELD calls them the Avengers. My best guess on that decision was that Fury liked it."

I blinked twice, rapidly, feet vibrating against the bottom of the plane, and below that floor, nothingness surrounded me. After a few more minutes of uncomfortable idle time spent, a scratchy voice came over the intercom over our heads. It was the pilot speaking to us, his voice crackling with static.

"We'll be landing in ten minutes," he informed us. My insides squirmed, and the rest of my companions looked nervous. Disheveled as they were, I could tell that they were holding out for each other. We spent the last few agonizing minutes in a stillness that ate away at my bones. Ronan was tapping his fingers randomly on his thighs. I couldn't detect any pattern in the movements, so it appeared as a nervous tick. There was a small handgun strapped beneath my seat, and making as little noise as I could, I bent over, seatbelt making the position uncomfortable, and removed the gun. Leaning back, I let out a breath that I didn't know I had been holding. The smooth metal in my hands was cool, and it calmed some of my climbing nerves. However, my adrenaline continued to pump at full force, flooding my rationality.

There were small windows built into the passenger's section, but the thin black blinds had been pulled across them. One of the portholes was just over Nathaniel's shoulder, and I saw him bring his hand up to peel the screening away. I cleared my throat softly, and his hand froze, his eyes shooting over to me. I gave a shake of my head, lips pursed. He cast his gaze downwards, and his hand slowly fell back to his lap. None of us needed to see what was happening. I didn't want to know anymore. The pilot had only just announced our decent when the first round of gunfire shattered the silence.