[noted]:
Here's chapter four for you guys! Hope you liked the last one, since we learnt both the identities of Shark and Bolt (Or Vance and Lucas) and had a little bit of a heart to heart and character development. This one is about tactical analysis and battle plans and maybe we'll finally get to meet the other characters!
Surely, you guys have guessed by now that Esoteric is the team that SHIELD has identified as terrorists, right? If you haven't, no worries, but there might be more to what they really are.
KingKatsu: I'm not sure, since I actually haven't written that far, but it's a really cool idea! Might do it. Can any of you tell I'm winging this?
HellDevil13: there may have been a bit of fairy dust involved, especially since I was tweaking it when you commented so yeah, there's a little bit of magic.
[ chapter four ]
táctica
Translation - tactics
Appropriation - "vamos a hablar tácticas."
The room is full to the brim, like an overflowing water bottle as Spiderman and Nova fight over the last remaining seat in the room near the head of the table, where Stalker sits gingerly going over files; behind her, against the wall is Rouge, talking shyly with Iron Fist over a topic lost in the noise, like static in a loud room. Tiger swings her legs off of the side from where she sits talking to Powerman, with Tempest tucked against his side to steady the tsunami that rises in her chest at the close contact in the room with strangers. Shark has taken refuge with Lux in a pair of chairs and Bolt is staring at his phone under the table, ignoring the conversation in favor of tapping aggressively at his screen.
There's a sudden stillness in the room when Stalker rises, a swan in her bones and a soldier in her blood as she retracts a chip from one of the files, digging it into the side of the table, which flares up a case file with blocks of text and image attachments on a holographic screen, much like how Nick Fury introduced Paradox 13 to the Ultimates. Even now, he's watching through a camera in the corner of the room and in the handle of the mug Spiderman sips out of reading 'World's best Animal!'. "I'm sure you Ultimates have heard of the recent attacks in small towns that have spread in a correlated pattern, hm?"
She looks down towards the other teenagers, and Spiderman hums a despondent tone in his chest, annoyed at the insinuation, but nonetheless, puts down his mug and sits forwards against where he leans on the wall, rolling down his mask. "Uh, can't say we have. Mind relaying it back?"
He bristles at the aggravated sigh, before she taps across the tabletop to pull up a map, which settles in onto a small square of land. Suddenly, an eruption of dots explodes on the screen, and it continues in a pattern until it almost runs out of the square of land. "Recently, there have been coordinated attacks correlating to known laboratories and research centers in small towns, but it's escalated," her fingers tap again, and another plot of familiar land shows up. New York. "They've moved onto big cities, and bigger countries. London, Paris, Hong Kong - to name a few."
"Wait, I actually heard about this," Tiger leans forwards on her wrists like an engaged child into the teacher's words, her fingers tapping idly against the backs of her knuckles. "They called them a rebel faction, a group of terrorists set out to destroy a certain company that's been known to kill off...well, targets in other countries by creating bio-hazards and poisons, as well as to liberate a few things from their 'mirage collection' as they call it."
Stalker hums her praise, and leaning forwards, spreads the map wider, until it shows a tail of connected cities and towns across the globe that coincide with the bloody-red dots. "Yes, and we've tracked a small part of the faction to New York, where they're planning to conduct another attack on the citizens themselves. We've come into contact once before, but it...didn't end well."
They don't miss the way Stalker's voice falters, or the way Lux's brows turn down like fallen leaves and she turns away, crossing her arms and staring at the door to avoid the looks thrown her way. Stalker coughs and pulls the attention back to herself, albeit however hard. "They're just children, around our ages, but that doesn't excuse their actions. They've gone to all measures to go undetected - fake passports, they pay for their gear with cash so there's no paper trail and use online forums to discuss with other parts of the factions."
"How'd you figure that out, the last part?" chides Nova, having gained a seat and leaning back into it gleefully.
"Most mob bosses and criminals of lower status use them to communicate, since they're unmonitored and usually hardly frequented in favor for more popular social networking sites," an example image is pulled up, talking of a 'lost puppy' and 'needed collar.' Somehow, these words are synonymous with 'target' and 'needed weaponry.' Stalker leans on a hip, red paneled eyes turned downwards. "We didn't intercept this particular post until it was, unfortunately, too late. But, we've contacted a recent post put up by the group we've been tracking."
Another post pulls up on a different website, talking of a need of transport in central park, and a reply documenting it will be there by six o'clock in the afternoon in two days. The first poster replies back, saying there's a need of certain items that the chauffeur of the car will need to bring: mints, blankets and rags. The driver responds and asks how many people will be joining, and the poster replies an indefinite number yet. The forum ends there and Tempest has already decoded the meaning behind the words, sickness piercing her stomach like a hot needle.
"If you've worked it out, you'll know that there's going to be a drop off in Central park of weapons, gas masks and most likely holding equipment at six o'clock by Friday. But, we don't know if this team of terrorists will be conducting the terror attack in central park, due to using the word indefinite, or that they're just receiving, so we'll need to be on high alert."
"It makes sense," murmurs Rouge from beside Stalker, peering up with unseeing blank eyes at the text. She's seen this before, she's dealt with this before - the possibility of death doesn't effect her in the slightest, "to conduct the attack in central park. By that time, tourists are usually there with locals and children are out of school - that would be the ultimatum opportunity to do it, since the tragedy would be devastating and would leave a scorn on New York, much like 9/11."
The entire room drops in temperature as Spiderman nods, pulling from the wall to stand just out of Stalker's range. "These guys seem legit too, as well as reckless - they're doing this in broad daylight, with hundreds of people surrounding them and any one of them could see their faces or remember them."
"Which is why we need to be on alert; so Spiderman's team will -"
Suddenly, there's a beat. A pulse rides through the room when Spiderman pauses, standing straighter than he was before and leveling a look towards the black clad leader of Paradox 13. "Whoa, slow down there, Wednesday Addams," he warns, holding a hand up towards the perplexed leader. Somewhere, someone snorts at the comparison. "Not that I don't respect your methods or your blatant authority, but if there's not mutual respect, there's no teaming up. You don't order my team and we won't order yours."
Stalker pauses, sudden panic lacing her hands together and making them stop on the table top. Guilt rides a current through her stomach and the need to assert her authority to this - this jokester, bleeds a war drum tune in her ears synonymous with the thrum of her blood. But she understands and pulls back on her anger, nodding solemnly. "Yes, of course. I apologize. Now then, let's talk tactics as a team."
Spiderman nods and settles back against his perch against the wall, satisfied. Across the room, Powerman chews on his lip. "So uh, what're these guys called anyways?"
"They're girls, and they're called Esoteric."
Six o'clock comes around far too fast on Friday, with Spiderman turned Peter Parker wandering through central park, scratching irritably at the comms unit tucked into the curve of his ear and an arm thrown around Tempest's shoulders just beneath his own. He cuts his eyes across the grass, folding them over teenagers lounging lazily and adults pressing through the crowds like beads on a string, tugged from a to b.
"Stop messing," hisses Ava through the comms unit, and Peter smirks on instinct, knowing she's watching from a bench across from where he stands, head dipped into a book inconspicuously, "they'll notice if it falls out and they'll run."
"Not my fault the PD's decided to get the ones that don't stay in," he hisses, grinning when Tempest chews on the edges of a smile, before sending his gaze skyward towards the building's that peek like children's hands over the heads of leaves, "Anyways, why aren't they coming to clean up their dirty work?"
"Because they know our faces, dumb-ass."
"Gotcha, fishy. You know, I actually know a fish, not like you and he's a - "
"I am going to slap you if you keep talking, web-head," snaps Sam over the comms, before being barked at to keep the line clear and all chatter ceases, save for someone's stifled cackle hidden in the static. Peter huffs and pats Tempest's shoulder, alerting her attention up towards him from under a bandanna.
He chokes back laughter at her outfit, as having to remain inconspicuous, she'd had to dress in clothes that hid any remnants of her physique - which resulted in a baggy sweatshirt that dragged around her knees and jeans that seemed to scrape the floor, as well as a bandanna that pulled back her hair in a scraggly way. Of course, he wasn't much different in his attire as they fell beside each other on the grass, the shorter brunette instantly pulling up grass in her hands to distract herself from the jitters in her chest. Peter rolls his eyes good-naturedly at the innocent hope that pulls at her skin. They'd been paired together since they seemed the most inconspicuous out of the entire group, and he ruffles her hair when she moves to look for Sam somewhere in the tidal wave of bodies.
"So, what're we looking for?"
Tempest's brow pulls down, as well as her knees to her chest, as her eyes tug themselves around the park. The center is alive and bustling, filled with loud noise and she dodges a football that flies past her head with a chuckle. "Well, we know it's a team of teenage girls, and they said there'd be an indefinite number. The contact never described themselves, so we're going out on a limb here to say there's going to be a gaggle of girls around one part of the park. Most likely, it'll be a brief drop off and they'll either be quiet enough to avoid detection or be smart and be boisterous and loud enough that people will just write them off as stereotypical teenagers."
"Oh god, not stereotypes - our only weakness."
She stuffs a laugh into the folded over cuffs of her sweatshirt, folding against Peter as if they were in a relationship, as to allude to most that they were. Tucking into their designed disguises efficiently, Peter followed the act, tossing an arm off her shoulders, although hanging it slightly, eyes darting to Ava to send her a positive smile when the pages of her book crinkled slightly from force. "If we're going with that, then they won't be wearing disguises. They'll fit right in."
"He's our best bet," she whispers, moving to point to a corner of the wide stretch of land and pushing her hand back into her hair, as if to flick some out of her face, but Peter catches the hint between his teeth. Across the fields, beneath a tree, a teenager sits with a cigarette hanging like a tight-rope walker between his lips. A thick jacket hangs over his spindly frame, and thick, red-dyed-brown hair peeks from beneath his hood. Between his feet, hanging like a limp body over the worn-down trainers, is a thick duffel bag. He snuffs out the cigarette on the grass with a swan in his fingers, a dancer in his toes and he shifts the bag over his shoulder before sliding against the tree.
Peter swipes a hand through his hair, leaning on it and ultimately, pressing the comms unit further into his ear. "Everyone got a visual on Red Apple at six o'clock, niner-niner."
"What the heck are you saying?"
On the comms, Bolt sighs. "He's saying, look at the red head opposite them. Suspicious activity."
"Be ready. It's just hit six, guys." The command is like a bullet that worms it's way down all their spines, ripping through the humor in return for sharp eyes and tentative toes ready to run. It's a few minutes before the red head pulls from the tree, sleeves rattling like teeth in the wind when a figure parts through the crowd and walks towards him. There's a thick jacket hung over her own figure, as if her bones are only pegs for it to grasp and her head is bowed beneath a hood. There's a bundle tucked between her arms, thick and lumpy that it's unidentifiable and held close to her chest in the crooks of her arms.
"Keep on them," grounds Stalker, and the tremors belt through Peter's stomach like earthquakes had shook his bones, but there's no spidey sense. There's no danger. As he moves to whisper it through the comms, they both move.
The girl tucks her fingers, thin and broken apart by the knots of her joints and the red head pulls the hood off his face, slanted eyes staring down towards the bundle in the girls arms. He pulls the blanket apart, like an envelope, and his teeth sink into his bottom lip. Something like sympathy, even though they're terrorists and they're hurting people and there are bombs in their grasp - he can see the worry that pulls their pale skin tight, the bones that show from nights of running. And of all these things, they're kids and the red head tucks the bundle back up, shifting the bag higher on the girl's shoulder.
"Intercept once they leave the park, away from civilians. If not, engage with extreme force."
Peter wants to bark back to wait, to think before they move, but he's far too pre-occupied with the way the boy takes the girl's face, even though she flinches back extremely, between his fingers. He presses their foreheads together and though his mouth doesn't move, something unanimous slips between them, something whole and gentle that Peter doesn't recognize.
"Are...are they siblings?" whispers Tempest, mostly to herself as nostalgia picks it's teeth over her chest, the way her heart thrums when she remembers a life that was never hers, filled with friends that felt like siblings, cousin's that felt too big too be anything but. Yet, even though the illusion of relatives is still not ruined when the boy gives her a hug and a sharp nod, much like a conditioned soldier, her chest fractures slightly anyway when the red head pulls away and marches across the field, immediately out of sight and gone.
Their gaze remains on the girl, who pauses like time hits stop in her heart before she shakes herself back into existence. She shifts the bundle, gentle and sweet, between her fingers and turns, moving to the mouth of the park.
"Spiderman, Tempest, Powerman - intercept, now."
"What did we talk about, miss black heart?"
He smirks at the growl that pushes through the comms, although he stands. "Intercept now, please."
Tempest is already in front of him, sneakers lazily kicking themselves off of her feet as she walks, and he can see Luke through the trees, where the girl is heading. It's sudden, but he see's it as quick as it was. The girl pauses, falters like static is hissing in her throat when she looks up and suddenly, her body vanishes. Peter pauses, Tempest rears back from the empty space of air and he can see across the park the confusion that blasts itself across Luke's features.
The African-American teen rubs a hand over his face, catching a look at his wrist where a watch lies dormant. His brows rise. "Guys...wasn't it six fifteen just now?"
"Yeah, wh - oh no." Something bites into Shark's words, something that makes him throw his comms as the clatter rings through everyone's ears.
"It's six seventeen."
"There! I see her, heading north east, towards Nova," snarls Lux, and there's a a smattering of a clearing that provides a wide mouth that shows the fluttering jacket and the bouncing duffel bag. Immediately, the group flings into action, with Nova just missing the girl as he grabs at her jacket. Ava joins his side when they begin running and somewhere, Lux pulls herself out of the shadows, pushing through people with determination rattling her veins like a war drum.
She bursts out into the street, like a scream from a dormant throat and cars blare horns like bombs, making her flinch back and away from, almost making her fall. But she pulls and frays at her balance, gliding across the street with Sam, Ava and Lux on her tail. The others have dispersed, Tempest and Rouge climbing higher and higher into the air, Spiderman is web slinging and the others are following on foot or, in Stalker's case, shadows.
The chase turns them to a darker part of New York, near the docks where the water laps uneasy and the world turns to crumbling brick and boarded up windows. They're changed into their costumes that were hidden beneath layers of clothing, and soon, they can almost touch her as she runs.
"Stutter!" screeches Stalker as she throws herself out of the shadows at her, missing her gently. A soft cry sounds from the girl, but it seems too child-like for her. But the missed action gives Stalker a chance to grab at the duffel bag. It falls from Stutter's grasp,spinning the girl until she lands on her hands and knees on the floor. Her hood's fallen off, displaying gaunt, sunken in cheeks and raggedy blond hair, knotted around her shoulders. Fear splits her grey-blue eyes wide and she scrambles towards the bag, bouncing back only when Bolt sends a spark of electricity towards her, making her rear back as if it actually had touched her. A loud cry, a baby, bursts from between her arms. She doesn't try to silence it, she can't - Paradox 13 are battling forwards, all whilst the Ultimates stare in horror.
But before they reach her, Stutter worries her lip between her teeth, folds her fright against her chest and throws the only remaining hand up she has. There's tears pouring down her cheeks when she screams. "Stop, please!"
Suddenly, she's gone. No-one laughs at the way Shark trips over the empty space with Bolt landing across his back, but there's remnants of her and the child she'd held on the ground. A scattering scarf, darkened wood from where she'd cried and of course, the tossed duffel bag.
"She got away - again!" Lux bites into her words with anger, kicking a foot against the ground when she realizes she's long gone, without the slow threading of a crowd to slow her down. Even though she arches high above the crates, she can't catch a glimpse of the blond.
Behind them, Iron Fist crouches, with hands like glass as he pulls apart the ripped mouth of the duffel bag, peering inside tentatively with a firm line for a mouth. But his brows turn down, and his mouth parts before digging a hand further into the confines of the bag.
"My friends, I...I don't believe this was a drop-off of weapons."
"Iron Fist, of course it was," answers Shark, approaching the blond as he hangs off of his haunches, "we intercepted and decoded the messages, it has to be."
"Not necessarily," he says, and his hand slips out, cradling a thin bottle between long fingers. Across it, is scrawls of writing and text and accompanied is a bottle of pills with the liquid. He chews on his lip, and shakes his head, almost in disgust. "It's medicine. An entire bag full of pharmaceutical supplies."
"Oh my god...we didn't intercept a weapon drop-off." White Tiger gags around the reality as she stares at the collection of medicine for diseases she's never heard.
"No," he answers, and his grip tightens. "We intercepted a medicine offering; we may have just put the final nail into the coffin for someone, literally."