vi.
Muffled booms rumbled in Reese's ears; heat washed over his face. He rolled drunkenly to one side and tried to open his eyes. Reached up with a clumsy hand to find them already open with fuzzy surprise. He squeezed his eyes shut once and blinked a few times, blurry vision lightening by degrees. He rolled back to stare up at the sky from the pavement—why was he on the ground? He took in the Midtown skyscrapers, stretching to a bright blue sky broken by a patch of starry night. Flurries of alien ships swarmed around the buildings. Car horns and shrieks echoed through the streets.
Wait. Alien ships.
Alien ships!
Reese levered himself into a sitting position, bringing the sharp throbbing in his head to the forefront. His nose filled with acrid smoke, ripping coughs from his chest. An explosion on his right made him flinch away: a strange blue bolt that seared his eyes and ended in a bone-jarring boom and flames writhing—
New York was under attack.
Reese lurched to his feet and clamped a numb hand onto a newspaper stand to keep himself upright. He pawed at his coat, searching for his phone. He had to contact Finch, update him right away about the attack and about…something important…
He jerked away from another blast and his eyes fell on the remains of his phone three feet away on the sidewalk. Reese could tell it hadn't been broken in the initial attack, nor had it been crushed when he fell. It looked like it had been destroyed by a precise heel strike.
Whalen. They were wrong again. The kid had turned on him, the minute he'd gotten Finch's urgent call. He must have been waiting for it.
Reese growled under his breath and pushed himself to his full height. He couldn't have been out long; Whalen might not have gotten far. A cursory scan couldn't pick him out of the crowd and by now everyone was running somewhere. Some haphazardly though the streets, most into tall buildings or down subway entrances. Come to think of it—Reese flinched back from yet another blast much closer to him than any yet—that might be his best option too. No sense walking headfirst into a battle he couldn't do much in.
He started easing his way toward the nearest alleyway, already plotting a quick route to the library for a regroup with Finch—
There!
Reese threw himself forward before he could think better of it, falling into an evasive pattern as he hurtled down the street. He had to duck into a tall doorway or behind an overturned car every now and then to dodge blasts but now he had eyes on Whalen. Just a few blocks down and performing the same strategic trek—still heading for ASI, even in the midst of an attack.
Reese cursed him out with all the spare breath he could muster, adding a few invectives for his own luck. But his job was clear. He had to stop Whalen—or go down trying.
Explosions rocked thousands of cameras, saturating the pixelated scenes. Deep throbbing booms mixed with high-pitched screams over thousands of microphones. Civilians ran for cover across Midtown, chased by no less than an airborne army. The sounds and images flooded every overtaxed feed and painted the horrifying picture of a city turned warzone. The Machine was paralyzed, accepting the input on autopilot. This was it: the worst case scenario.
An attack on New York City. The very thing the Machine had been designed to prevent.
And it had missed everything.
It was happening now with no warning whatsoever. The Machine had failed its primary objective. And worse yet, Admin and Asset were both near the heart of the attack.
The Machine could have accepted Admin staying safely ensconced in his base. It was well within acceptable defensible parameters, with thick walls and minimal entry points thanks to Asset's hard work and Admin's justified paranoia. The Machine was confident in an 87.3% chance of his survival despite the library's proximity to Stark Tower. But for some inexplicable reason, he had left its relative safety. Perhaps he knew of a perimeter weakness the Machine did not; at least he was headed quickly and quietly away from the main conflict.
But Asset was on the street. Unprotected. And according to a shaky traffic camera, just on the right side of consciousness and unsteady.
But still running full speed after the flagged number despite multiple hostiles firing from overhead.
And as usual, the Machine could do nothing. Even if its programming allowed it to contact humans, it doubted Asset would stop his chase to pick up a ringing payphone.
The Machine knew Asset was not the first operative to help Admin's cause and would likely not be the last—but it also knew Admin. It knew he was becoming fond of Asset and had started treating him as a friend. Something he had not had since his old Associate. Something important.
Even the recent stress placed on their relationship by Admin's decision to withhold the wife-abuser case from Asset, while significant, was also temporary. The Machine was yet again privy to all sides of the case and able to share none of the information. It could see Admin was trying to shield Asset from painful and personal memories. And that Asset's reaction was comprised of his hurt at an apparent lack of trust, his impressive cold fury and a herculean protective streak. It was clear to the Machine after watching them interact that given a recovery interval, mostly to let Asset calm down, their burgeoning friendship could be repaired. Provided they got the chance.
The Machine kept two full processors dedicated to tracking each—all it could spare and no less. At least Admin's path was now clear. He was headed for the headquarters of Advanced Security International, just beyond the main perimeter of the battle. Soon to be behind solid walls once again. Asset flitted from feed to feed, dodging both airborne and ground-based aliens with his unique skill. Never losing his quarry in the process. Perhaps if there was any human that could be trusted to thrive in this burst of unexpected combat, it was Asset.
And perhaps he was not alone.
The Machine was aware the Iron Man suit had been deployed—and was directly responsible for halting the rapid spread of the aliens through the city. At least it meant JARVIS knew about the situation, even if the Machine could not reach its friend. The New York police did their best despite being far out of their depth. But most interesting was the stray SHIELD quinjet that flitted between skyscrapers, shooting down aliens left and right and going for a man in a gold helmet with no identification information to be found. Who called himself Loki. The Norse god.
No wonder the Machine had not seen the attack coming.
Minutes later the quinjet was grounded after an admirable if hasty landing and the Machine caught a glimpse of the three people that exited it from the nearest traffic camera.
The first was a man in an updated Captain America suit, replete with shield. The second was a red-headed woman who moved like an experienced fighter, smoother even than Asset. The third was Clint Barton.
The Machine was relieved to see him. It was immediately apparent Barton was himself again: he moved better, used familiar speech patterns. And the upside down view from a dropped cell phone showed a natural tint to his blue eyes. It was inexplicable but the Machine could tell that whatever had influenced him to fight against SHIELD had been eliminated.
And if this attack on New York had indeed been precipitated by an alien god, perhaps the influence had been supernatural after all. SHIELD must have found a way to break the control. Barton and his companions began assisting Iron Man at the ground level, giving first priority to establishing a formal perimeter and rescuing civilians with no thought to their own safety.
Complete the mission and protect, consequences to themselves be damned. Just like Asset.
Perhaps the situation was salvageable after all if people like them kept coming out of the woodwork. All the Machine needed was for Admin to stay safe and out of the way and it could start to feel almost hopeful.
The inexpert execution of four desperate dodges and three painful sprints through rubble-strewn city blocks carried Finch into the relative safety of Advanced Security International's building lobby. He took several moments to catch his breath, clutching a decorative pillar with white fingers as he pushed the ache in his spine to its home in the back of his mind.
Not trusting the elevators, Finch hustled up three flights of stairs and plowed into ASI's reception area. The desk attendant was nowhere to be seen so Finch bypassed the inner door's crude lock and let himself into the offices. Most of the employees hovered around the windows, straining to catch a glimpse of what was happening outside. The building power flickered ominously but the still-distant explosions were muffled, shielded as they were by a scant block or two from the main invasion zone.
Finch brushed past them with confident steps, hoping if any of them did notice him they wouldn't question his presence. He bypassed the first of the private offices, frowning at the nameplates. Miller, no. Wilkinson, no.
Ah, there he was. Carlton, fifth office in. The man in charge of Whalen's mission. Finch rapped his knuckles on the doorframe, slipping inside. "Mr. Carlton?"
The man staring out the window with a slack jaw didn't react so Finch stepped up to the desk. Added steel to his voice: "Mr. Carlton!"
The man jerked, spinning to face Finch. "Yes, of course…can I—who are you?"
Normally, Finch might enjoy a little dry wit when given such an opening. But he was more than a little shaken himself. "It is hardly relevant, Mr. Carlton. I'm here to offer you some assistance. I'm afraid you're in some danger."
Carlton blinked at him. His eyes slid to the window again. "Believe it or not, that's not exactly news." They both jumped as an explosion rattled the building—much closer than before. The aliens must be advancing through the city.
"Yes, of course. But I am not referring to the attack outside. This matter is much more personal. Do you remember a young man of your former employ, a Mr. Rick Whalen?"
Carlton gave his head a dismissive shake. "Whalen. Yes, of course. He was one of our best mission leaders." He furrowed his brow, shifting from one foot to the other. "What about him?"
"I understand he believes he has unfinished business with you." Finch looked him straight in the eye. Despite Carlton's projected calm Finch did not miss his sharp intake of breath.
"That's not possible. Mr. Whalen was an unfortunate casualty during on op last year. I don't understand—" Carlton jumped again as another boom echoed up the street but recovered quickly, voice rising in pitch. "How could he pose a problem to us? You think this is important now? During an invasion?"
"Mr. Carlton, I'm quite serious. Mr. Whalen did not die in Afghanistan." As Finch suspected, no hint of surprise crossed the man's face.
"You can't know that," Carlton snapped. "We keep very accurate records. I'm sure that Whalen was a casualty. Now, if you don't mind…" He motioned Finch out of his office as his eyes drifted to the large window once more.
Finch frowned. The only thing left was to pull out the big guns. "Then could you explain why you sent men out to tie up, as you say, a dead loose end? It seems quite the waste of resources."
Carlton stilled, refocusing on Finch with a hard stare. "What are you talking about?"
Finch affected a nonchalant shrug. "I was tracking Mr. Whalen and couldn't help but notice your men. It seems you believe he is both dead and very much alive—which is it?"
Finch had his full attention now and Carlton took a step toward him, face pale. "Tracking him? How did you find him?"
"That's none of your concern," Finch dismissed with a firm tone. "What matters is that I found him, saw him lose his pursuit and noted his direction. He's heading here, as we speak."
Finch thought the man had been shaken before. But now Carlton's face turned white. "What do you mean here? He's coming here? I thought he was trying to leave the city!"
"I'm afraid not," Finch glanced out the window, frowning as large shadows flitted across. "He is now unhindered and seems to be coming to this—Mr. Carlton!" The man darted past Finch and was halfway to the reception area before Finch could pivot out the office door. "Mr. Carlton, wait!"
"I can't," he said as Finch caught up with him. His eyes were huge and jumped between the main doors and the outside window. "I can't be here, you don't understand. There is nothing here that can stop him—he was our best!"
"I doubt your odds in an alien invasion are any better," Finch snapped, trying to subtly block the exit. But Carlton slid past him and shook his head.
"They aren't good, I'll admit. But those…those things aren't looking for me. If they hit me, it'll be by chance. My odds are far worse with Whalen, I promise you." He plunged into the stairwell, hesitating every two or three steps to let Finch keep pace. "I can't be here. If he finds me, I'm dead for sure."
"Do you have somewhere in mind to go?" Finch huffed when they hit the lobby. Carlton scanned the street through the wide glass doors before biting his lip and turning away. There were no signs of the aliens outside yet, but the street was littered with some debris and there were people running—occasionally backlit by strange blue flashes. The lobby itself was empty.
"There's a back exit over here." He waved Finch through and herded him out into an alley. "I have a couple places in mind. Whalen might know about them. But if he's coming here first, it might buy me a little time." Carlton checked both ends of the street at the alley's mouth, turning back to face Finch. "Thanks for the warning."
Finch could tell he wanted rid of the dead weight. But before the man could make good on his plan, Finch grabbed his arm. "What if I could offer you a safe house he won't know about?"
Carlton paused and frowned at him. "You know this place hasn't been compromised?"
"Yes," Finch said. "I assure you there is no way—"
"You can take me there? Now?" Carlton asked, brushing away his hand.
"Yes," Finch said, mentally calculating a route to the nearest of his bolt-hole apartments. Provided it was still standing, of course.
Carlton tore his worried gaze from the street and fixed it on Finch, frowning at him. After a few long seconds he seemed to come to a decision. "All right. I promise I'll remember this."
"I'm certain you will," Finch muttered, taking his own stock of the street before setting out. The alien ships sounded like they were no more than a block away. "First we have to make it there alive."