Author's Notes: Last POV of the team. Sam, dear. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Ultimate Spider-Man is not mine. Nor are any of its characters. That's Marvel's job. Any Original Characters and art you note, however, are all me. No. I'm not making money. Don't rub it in.

Chapter 05 - Fear

Saying Samuel Alexander was used to being considered the 'reckless one' would be an understatement. By now, he expected it. Though he couldn't quite understand it. Webs could be and often was just as reckless. Even Luke and Danny had their moments, with Ava in a league of her own. Yet Fury always—always—looked at him first when it came time for blame.

What? Did a sign hang above his head or something? One that said 'Hey, I'm blame-worthy; over here!' That must be it since the alternative was that he was a worse hero than the others in his team. And that sure as hell wasn't true.

"Stupid Fury," Sam muttered sorely. Near ten at night, he flew low to New York City's rooftops because he had been paired with Iron Fist for patrol. But he'd admit; he was paying the Fortune Cookie little attention as he scowled. "It wasn't my fault."

"You keep repeating that, friend," said Iron Fist evenly. The blonde's glide across the ever-changing roofs was flawless on light feet, and Sam followed the movements while flying sideways in the May air.

"Duh, because I'm still pissed about earlier," the hero spat, glaring beneath his Nova helmet. "Why was I the one singled out for Chinatown? Luke did just as much damage as me."

"So, you would rather a comrade take the blow of Fury instead?"

Sam scoffed at his friend's calm, almost patronizing tone. "I'm just saying, we usually take the blame together. But not tonight, apparently."

"Forgive us, friend," Iron Fist noted bleakly after a small pause. The blonde glanced Sam's way. "We all felt you needed to hear him out, but you wouldn't wait for him to finish."

"Why? So I can hear him call me a 'cowboy' and point out all the things I did wrong?"

"Sam"—Sam barely kept his mouth shut at his friend's stern address—"To make mistakes is only human. But to turn a blind eye to them is foolishness. Sometimes we need another's help in recognizing our own faults."

"What faults?" the Hispanic snapped before maneuvering so he faced Iron Fist head on. "Heroes take action. It's what I do. He can't be mad at me for that."

"He's not," Iron Fist retorted, voice sharpening. "If you had stayed to listen—actually listen—then you would know that. Fury's point was that you had let a haughty attitude keep your guard down and Trickster gained an upper hand over you because of it. A couple almost died yesterday."

"Hey, I wasn't the only one out there this afternoon!" Sam cried with an instant flare through his aura. He felt his fists and jaw clench with a rising fury over the memory, yet didn't let their screams dwell in his skull. "What about you? Or Ava? You could've gone. We are a team, right?"

"We are. But this is the second time in a week civilians have been harmed. Though blame isn't meant, both times were due to your actions."

"Yeah, I can tell it just kills you to throw me under the bus."

"Listen, Sam." Iron Fist stopped on a wide, flat roof, meeting his friend's glare coolly. "We only mean for the best, even Fury. His 'cowboy' comments are only meant as a guide of how dangerous you've been acting. Sometimes the wisest thing to do is to understand before acting."

"What I understand is that the Trackers need taken down!" the Hispanic countered, a growing fire in his tone.

"Sam—"

"It's Trickster's fault for what he did to me."

"He can't control you; merely influence you."

"You've been under his influence too, Danny. You know it's more than that. He warps your mind. How can I be blamed for that?"

Slowly, Iron Fist shook his head. "You aren't being blamed for any such thing. Fury simply wants you to take responsibility for your actions—intentional or not. If anything, you're being blamed for a lack of control."

"I have full control," Sam noted over the blonde's weak sigh. He crossed his arms while still suspended in the air. "Are you saying you would confess to something your body did, say, subconsciously?"

"In this case? Yes. Because Trickster's power lies in belief. Since we're aware of that and had the chance to plan a counterattack, our actions are soul-bound to us."

"We got Coulson as a principle. What chance are you talking about?"

"That aside, you should know better than to blast your way in without bothering to address the enemy as someone worth caution."

"Trickster—"

"As you said, warps your mind. That's why you should have guarded it against him."

"I did. He just…" With a twitch, Sam's voice dropped. Like the small pit in his stomach. "He didn't go down. Then he used that stupid camouflage power. That I didn't know he could do."

"Versatility and adaption: skills we should know well."

Sam flashed a look at the stony blonde. "How are we supposed to adapt to him, exactly?"

"Mental preparation is the best method; however," Iron Fist narrowed his eyes, "even I know how strong Trickster's hold is. What did he convince you of?"

"Huh? Oh, well…that's—uh…"

Yeah. Sam didn't want to recall it, honestly. And he knew his friend could tell as much. Still, even after the Hispanic's attention drew to the roof in silence, the blonde continued his annoying stare, pressuring Sam with a cool, penetrative gaze until he groaned.

"The jerk-wad got under my skin at first," Sam grumbled as his boots touched the concrete beneath him. "You know. Saying stupid things. Then he got…worse. Like, did you know his left eye can paralyze you?"

Danny remained unblinking, answering, "Yes. I read his file. Unlike some."

Che. Overachiever.

"Whatever. Anyways, when I managed to break free of that, he started whispering in my ear like some creep psycho in a horror flick. He made me feel—cornered. Like everyone's eyes were dissecting me, criticizing me, and my only chance f—for survival was to blast my way out…"

He could still remember the creeping crawling feeling, the shortness of breath, the loud thump of his heart in his ears. It was unnerving.

"Sam," Iron Fist started, low, "something tells me…that's a genuine fear of yours."

What? Sam's eyes snapped up instantly and Iron Fist raised his bare hands in defense.

"Hear me out, okay? It's something I've noticed. Trickster doesn't just induce paranoid; he reads people. So the truer the root of the paranoia, the stronger his power is. And his hold over you was quite powerful."

"So? He got a hold of you too!"

"It's not an insult."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yes. Perhaps while working with the Guardians, Rocket especially—"

"Don't"—Sam glared, dark—"bring them into this."

"It's a point, Sam." Iron Fist gave a small sigh at the Hispanic's pointed finger. "Rocket's known for being trigger-happy. As are you. So if you found a way to rationalize the fear, tame it, instead of barging into battle blindly—then you could strengthen your mind against Trickster."

Scoffing, Sam rose into the air, not quite able to smirk at his Nova power's warmth surging through him. "Or I could always strike harder and faster than last time. See if his skinny ass can take that."

For a long moment Iron Fist silently stared, unmoving before he shook his head. "You know the very definition of madness is attempting the same thing multiple times and expecting different results….right?"

"I'm not mad."

"No, just thick-headed."

Sam twitched beneath his helmet. "You know what, Danny? I—"

"Hey, you kids, get back here!" a male screamed in a strong Asian accent.

The heroes shared a mutual look—words lost. Immediately, they headed for the roof ledge across from them then peered at the street below. Sam's eyes narrowed as they closely followed the wide backside of a salt-and-pepper-haired man dressed in all white with an apron. A cook, no doubt. Chinese, judging by the waft of sweet and sour pork that hit Sam's senses. The balding man shook a chunky fist and ahead of him two figures could be spotted. No bigger than pre-teens, they weaved through dense New York traffic, jumping over and between cars. At one point, one even flew—not far or long, but it surely read abnormal.

"You don't think—" the Hispanic started. His gaze locked on one figure's pair of insect wings that seemed to glow in the moonlight.

"Yes," Iron Fist interjected while poised on the ledge.

"Then let's go get them."

"No." A firm arm kept Sam near the building.

He faced the blonde's grip on his shoulder then up. "You want to call the others first?"

Iron Fist shook his head. "Let's see where the kids lead us first. If they're part of the group that The Trackers are after then it would be best if we approached as a small band. Anything more could be…overwhelming."

"Overwhelming? Really? For the guy that shocked the hell outta us earlier?"

"We're losing them. Come on."

Oh, well.

Sam followed Iron Fist closely as they descended to street level then crossed traffic much easier than the kids had done. Once on the other side, Sam preformed a steep ascent for a bird's eye view. He spotted the duo not too far ahead. They stuck along narrow back-alleys in the block's maze, though the winged-one had difficulty maneuvering them.

Iron Fist about missed a turn they had taken until the figure's wing knocked over a stack of trashcans with a metallic clang. The blonde backtracked to the alley when the figures sped up. They crossed the four-lane road on the other side of a building Sam had to round. Then, they jumped a chain-link fence. The drop on the other-side was surprisingly steep and had they not been mutants, Sam was certain they would've broken bones instead of landing as gracefully as they did.

"What is this?" the hero asked when he joined Iron Fist at the low level.

"Old subway entrance?" Iron Fist suggested. He did a quick sweep of the bus-size area, which smelled strongly of dirt, oils, and pungent plants.

It was overgrown, clearly unkempt. Many mature, ugly weeds grew along the concrete wall's bottom, around the wooded area to the left, and up and through a concrete awning that had a wide, dark mouth at its back.

"It may have been a service entrance of some kind," the blonde continued, distant, "being hidden like this."

"Well, the kids went in there, so let's go." Immediately, Sam flew forward, lighting the way with the blue glow of his aura

Iron Fist soon caught up, silent, and not long afterwards a soft scratching echoed in the track's deteriorating hall. Sam paused. So did Iron Fist. They didn't share a look, but knew one should glance forward and the other, back.

"I'm not seeing anything," noted Sam.

"Over here," Iron Fist whispered.

Turning, the Hispanic flew where his friend eased forward. He landed beside Iron Fist when the blonde paused then charged a hand for a clearer view of the two figures that scrambled as far back against the grimy wall as possible. A glimpse of blinding white and bright green forced Sam to take a step back. A glimpse of gray fur and pink skin caused him to yelp in a high-pitched voice. His glow flickered and he did contemplate running full-force out of the dark hall. Until Iron Fist gripped his tensed arm tightly. Too tightly, actually.

"She's not a rabbit," the blonde said under his breath. Then, the grip fell.

"I—I know," Sam retorted, shivering. Rabbits weren't weasels or rodents, but they still felt the same. Even mice.

"Hu—humans aren't welcome here!" One of the kids had spoken. Their soft voice shook with anxiety behind their North Dakota accent and hardly sounded threatening at all.

Sam gathered energy back into his hand. Though still uneasy, he kept an even expression, eyeing a short figure dressed in soiled street clothes. Her fair features were delicate—Asian for sure. And behind her, a pair of large, graceful wings were lifted high. They reflected the light of Nova's energy and their shape clearly defined them as those of a Lunar Moth. Well. When she gained more years, she definitely would be a looker. But her eyes? Those weirded Sam out greatly with their pure black coloring and slight bulge.

"Dude," the Hispanic directed towards Iron Fist, "she looks like a kid's fairy doll."

"Wh—What then?" the moth mutant asked, voice rising. "I'm not a girl!"

Sam raised an eyebrow behind his helmet. "Oh? Sorry? Do you…want to be considered a woman? You aren't quite at that age. How old are you? Ten?"

"I'm thirteen," the mutant answered with a mild glare behind ashy-gray bangs. "And I'm a boy. My name is Trent Harford."

"O—Oh…?" Try as he may, Sam still couldn't see an ounce of masculinity in Trent.

"My friend apologizes for the misconception," Iron Fist interjected, calm. Sam turned his head away when he sensed the blonde's gaze land on him. "There's no need to fear us; we mean no harm. Trent, who's your friend?"

"Sh—she's—"

"My name is Minerva Cunning," the second mutant replied. Her voice sounded dead; deeper than Trent's tone with less of an accent. She rounded her companion (who stood a few inches shorter than her) to meet Iron Fist's gaze first then Sam's.

The hero shivered involuntarily. Of course, she had to have mousy features. Even in the more human parts of her: like her tanned skin tone brushed with light fur and her round eyes with large, dark irises. Most of her body was covered by baggy clothes and an aviator scarf around her neck. But her hands and feet remained exposed.

With good reason, too. Gloves and shoes would've just been awkward. They were all similarly deformed to represent mouse paws—pink, fleshy, fuzzy, and clawed to boot. Gross. She kept them curled, which was her only sign of fright, and shifted in the increasing silence, which revealed a slender, twitching tail behind her feet. It also brought attention to the round mouse ears that protruded from the sides of her head.

"If you don't mean any harm then why were you chasing us?" Minerva questioned flatly. Sam eyed her as she situated a worn pair of aviator goggles over her eyes, brushing aside the straight-cut bangs of her frayed, black hair.

"We needed to meet," Iron Fist answered. "We only want to talk."

"Everyone only wants to talk."

"But we mean it," Sam added loudly. "Or, at least that's what he says."

Without looking, Iron Fist bent the Hispanic's pointed thumb backwards. "We want to help."

"If that's really true, leave us alone," Trent snapped over Sam's small whimper. Now he sounded like a boy. Kinda. "We can't trust humans."

"Aw, but we're special," Sam chimed with a fake smile and a rub of his thumb.

"Nova." Iron Fist spared another look then stepped forward. "Who told you that you can't trust humans?" he asked, ever calm. "Was it Kevin?"

The two remained silent and stone-faced.

"You don't have to fear humans," Iron Fist pressed. "People are people, regardless of what powers they have. Just like you wouldn't like to be judged as 'just a mutant', we don't want to be judged as 'just humans'. There are good and bad in both species. And we're good, so we want to help."

"We already have someone we plan to meet for help," Trent retorted.

"And he's not human," Minerva added.

Iron Fist stepped forward, his arms raised slightly. "Please. I assure you, if we had been in Enderlin, we would have helped then, too."

"Don't mention Enderlin to them, please," a new voice interjected in panic. Instantly, Minerva and Trent rounded Iron Fist and Sam, heading for someone in the darkness. "Did you guys get the food?" the same voice continued, softer in its accent.

"No," Minerva replied. "Trent dropped the bag when he ran into some trashcans."

"I—I'm sorry, Zeelan," said Trent glumly.

"It's okay. We'll try somewhere else."

"We could give you food," Iron Fist offered. Was it bribery? Sam couldn't tell.

"I don't think my brother would like that very much," responded Zeelan with a sigh.

The kids let the new figure approach Sam's light while they sought distance from the heroes. A young woman sent them a sad smile—her wide, dark eyes lined with insomnia. The flowy skirt and tank-top she wore looked in worse shape than the kid's clothes and her lightly-tan skin didn't glow as healthy as it probably should. She appeared starved, honestly. Like a hobo. Only a dense dusting of freckles across her skin, as well as a knotted mess of white curls convinced Sam that this mutant had been the one Ava mentioned earlier.

"Your brother," started Iron Fist after their brief pause, "he's the one that attacked my friends? The teleporter."

"Yes," Zeelan replied, grim. Her dark eyes settled on the blonde, taking a little more time to notice him then they did Sam. "He was mostly mad at me. Kevin tends to be…well. I know I shouldn't have gone out there."

"You can think that. But know if you hadn't, that couple would've died."

Sam shot his friend a look. The words felt like a jab in his gut, and when Iron Fist only spared him a glance, he glowered.

"I—I didn't think about what I was doing," the white-haired mutant mumbled while rubbing her thin arms.

Iron Fist gave a short nod. "A sign of a heroic heart is performing a good deed by instinct."

"I don't know about heroic…" Zeelan blinked slowly. "How are they, though? The couple?"

"They're fine," the blonde answered. "The woman had a broken leg, but nothing critical." He then smiled at her relieved sigh. Like it was charming or something. "It's good that you care. Maybe, we can get you to hear us out then."

"About what?" Zeelan spoke hurriedly and with a tinge of weariness.

"We want to help you with The Trackers—me and my team. To do that, we're going to need your trust."

"From someone who hasn't even told me their name?"

"Hey, you haven't asked," interjected Sam, pointing an accusing finger.

"Forgive the rudeness," Iron Fist said in that polite voice of his. "I'm called The Immortal Iron Fist, and my friend here is Nova." The Hispanic raised an acknowledging hand. "And yourself?"

"I…" The mutant's gaze lowered. "I'm Zeelan Weir."

"Zeelan." The blonde maintained his smile somehow. "Is it possible you could get an audience with the group's leader?"

"O—Oh, no." Zeelan shook her head, waving her hands ahead of her. "Bad idea. That would be my brother. And he thinks you're with SHIELD."

"We are," Sam blurted, and the mutant froze.

"Th—then you really shouldn't be here right now. My brother can show up at any minute, and I don't want him to hurt you."

Sam sent her an even look. "And if we aren't supposed to leave?"

"Would you be willing to at least talk with him for us?" Iron Fist sent Sam yet another look and kept his tone as pleasant as possible. "Tell him we can help keep you safe. If you just give us a chance then—"

"I can't promise anything," Zeelan said in just above a whisper. Her accented voice cracked with either tiredness or frustration. Possibly both. "Knowing you're with SHIELD just…complicates things."

"It usually does," muttered Sam sorely.

"He just won't…those agents in town."

"Won't what? Who are you talking about?"

"Nothing." Backing up, the freckled mutant joined Minerva and Trent, urging them further into the dark subway.

"Please, try to talk to him," Iron Fist added. "You can't keep running. I'm certain your brother knows that."

"I—I don't know."

"Just think about it. If you change your mind, you can contact us."

"How?"

"Huh? Well…u—uh."

"I got this, Mister Smooth." With a soft snort, Sam extended his left hand, his unhooked wrist communicator pinched between his fingers. Zeelan flashed a weary glance at it and he sighed, tossing it forward. "Don't worry, I just opened it up and fried the tracker. It can't be traced." But though she had caught it, she looked ready to drop it at any given minute.

"Thanks," she said, low, "and I'm sorry about this."

"About what?"

Purple flashed. A solid force hit Sam in his gut. Hard. The light from his aura dissipated as he hit the concrete wall behind violently then slid to the floor with a loud grunt. Deeper in the subway, voices echoed like chattering ghosts, but once Sam readjusted his Nova helmet, they stopped.

"Geeze, are we really going to help that?" the Hispanic hissed at Iron Fist, who he sensed approach.

The blonde helped him to his feet. "She's just scared, Sam. You shouldn't hold it against her."

"Yeah, says the guy who didn't get blasted!"

"No, I did." When Sam illuminated the barren area again, he noted Iron Fist's stern stare, as well as a small cut across his nose. Great, it could match the one on his cheek. "She just doesn't want us to follow," Fortune Cookie continued. "And that's fine. It's very likely…she will call."

"And if she doesn't, we just lost a lead. And Fury will chew me out for it. Thanks, teammate."

"We will both be pressured," countered Iron Fist as he headed for the exit. Sam followed suit, brooding. "That won't matter, though. It's more obvious now that Fury has omitted other details about Enderlin then we originally sensed. And I'm willing to endure a bit of scolding to figure them out."

Author's Notes: In Tony's words, "He is the spy. His secrets have secrets." Hope you enjoyed learning a bit more about the refugees. Got more in store, and next chapter will be Zeelan's POV. Don't forget to leave a review please! :D

spize666 - Thanks. Right now, we're taking things as they come. He'll be staying in trauma all week. Hopefully, he gets feeling back in his legs...Anyway. I saved Nova that much trouble. For now. Kukuku.