Logs:Spy vs. Spy

Spy vs. Spy
Dramatis Personae Fury, Pierce
In Absentia	2021-11-19 "Evil is just evil, but incompetence offends my delicate sensibilities."
Location <NYC> Fury's Apartment - Hell's Kitchen
An easy walk from Times Square, this two-bedroom apartment is on the top floor of a carefully restored historic apartment building, the southern exposure letting in as much natural light as the season and skyline will allow. It's sparsely decorated -- a scattering of framed historical photographs of the city on the pale gray walls -- but comfortably appointed in chic monochrome. The kitchen is definitely the focus of this residence, its black marble and steel kept scrupulously clean and well-provisioned. The master bedroom is generously sized by Manhattan standards, with a queen sized bed and its own bath to boot, so austere that one might be tempted to think it unlived-in. The smaller bedroom is set up as an office with a twin bed and entirely too much advanced computer equipment, its door usually kept closed when there are visitors. The savory scent of the short-rib stew, fresh bread, and fried okra still lingers even with dinner mostly put away. Fury is pouring two rather generous measures of scotch at his sideboard. He matches the monocromatic apartment in a black button-down and black slacks and the ever-present black eyepatch. "You remember when they finally gave me the green light for S.H.I.E.L.D.? I thanked you profusely and you told me I might eat my words." He holds out one of the lowball glasses to his guest. "Well. I'm not eating them yet, but they've been washed and chopped, beaten and breaded, all ready to go in the fryer." One might imagine the man sitting across from Fury has an entire closet full of the same suits -- each one cut to the same immaculate fit. A dark, charcoal gray, with the faintest hint of white pin-stripes; beneath that, a matching button-up vest that looks positively vintage -- and a dark blue multi-striped tie. He looks every bit like someone's very out-of-touch, deeply sincere, and very wealthy uncle. The sort of man who looks like he owns a pocket-watch -- not out of some awkward fashion sense, but just because... it's his favorite watch. Alex Pierce reaches across the table for the glass of scotch; the man is in his 60s, with a tightly coifed mop of golden-blonde hair and a pair of banker glasses. He examines the color, traces a finger over the rim -- then, before sipping, gives Fury a bemused look: "If it's any consolation, I'm only going to get the slightest bit of pleasure out of telling you I told you so." Fury subsides into his plush chair and gives a single "hah!" that isn't exactly a laugh. It's not exactly not a laugh, either. "My trouble isn't with S.H.I.E.L.D. itself, even if I would love to have more leverage on governments -- or any leverage at all beyond 'I'm gonna tell on you.'" He takes a slow sip of his drink. "This headache is kind of an edge case for our mission statement. It's taken as read every permanent member of the Security Council has their own black projects to weaponize mutants, or replicate their powers, or both. That should be on our turf, but it's pretty much hands-off unless I can prove they're a problem, which turns into a whole chicken-and-egg business." He tips his glass at Pierce. "Officially, anyhow." "Oh, Jesus." Pierce's expression flips from mildly jovial to genuinely concerned in an instant. Almost instinctively, his eyes spring to the left and the right -- as if to remind himself that the coast is clear. After a moment, he seems to realize where he is, and... manages to relax, just a bit. Settling back into that big, comfy chair; taking another (much longer) sip of that glass. Ice clinking. "No wonder you wanted to meet outside of my office, Nick. You know how many red flags that sentence alone would kick up for the NSA?" This last sentence is less serious, more amused; the gulp has helped him relax again, just a bit. "But, right -- like you said. Chicken and egg problem. 'Officially'." Pierce's expression darkens, for a moment. "Unofficially, well... I think we both know they're all a pretty big problem." "The NSA wishes their information security were as good as ours." The twitch of Fury's mouth is only a bit smug. "Thing is, the black project I'm looking into is doing their R&D on non-consenting subjects, on a massive scale. Even if I didn't give a shit about atrocities, that raises a lot of red flags for me." The conversation is inspiring him to, like Pierce, imbibe faster than he might have intended. "They already got a highly organized and highly competent group of mutant terrorists dedicated entirely to taking them down. Imagine if the Brotherhood waded into that fight. It'd be open war." "I always love those arguments. They're my favorite. 'Even putting aside the rampant human rights violations, have you considered just how sub-optimal what you're doing is?'." Pierce's tone is genuine amusement; as if he's had this conversation before. Multiple times. The amusement fades as Fury continues, though. He holds the glass up, swishing it from side to side. His expression is pensive. "It's a powder-keg. Especially with registration coming up. All we need is another Liberty Island incident, some mutant caught on YouTube trying to..." His free hand lifts to nudge his glasses down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I don't know -- turn a bunch of folks into fish or something? And it won't even need to be a black project, anymore." "Evil is just evil, but incompetence offends my delicate sensibilities." Fury's expression is deadly serious, but Pierce can read amusement, too, in his surly tone. "Exactly. Now, these particular extremists are smart -- or at least their leaders are -- and I don't think they'd haul off and do anything spectacularly and publicly stupid unprovoked. But that 'unprovoked' is doing a lot of work, given the baseline is their people being indefinitely imprisoned and tortured in secret with no recourse to justice, whatever the hell that even means anymore. I'd call that provocation." He shrugs, not so much nonchalant as fatalistic. "I think it's inevitable for it to end up in the open, one way or another, and I think that would be a good thing if it happens in a controlled way. It won't shut the project down, but they'd be subject to regulation, oversight, budget review, a dirty look or three from Amnesty International, the Human Rights Commission's I'm-not-mad-I'm-disappointed routine, and so forth." He gestures at the empty space of his living room as if it contained other hypothetical future check "If I were an optimistic man, I'd hold out hope for the administration to get miffed about the bad publicity and pressure the Pentagon to tone it down a bit." There is a sort of tired resignation in Pierce's posture as he listens to Fury. The left side of his mouth curls up into a wry, cynical little smile. "But I think we both know that even if it's out in the open, even if the public is on the right side of it... it's not going away. The world's engaged in an entirely new arms race -- the weaponization, the replication of mutant abilities. Whatever the truth of his origin is, every country on earth takes Captain Rogers' existence as a living proof-of-concept -- and no one wants to be the last country to figure out how to crack that nut." The ice clinks again. Pierce takes a deep gulp, finishing the rest of the glass in a single shot. He grimaces, before adding: "But I'm on your side on this. We can't shut this down, so... it needs to be open. Public. Highly regulated. Voluntary, even -- whatever that means in this context. And this needs to be done in a way that doesn't explode. Because if it does explode... Christ. We both know we're a hair's breath away from radicalizing a not-insignificant portion of this country's own mutant population against the government. And some of that population can read our minds." "Why do you think I was so keen to get hold of Cap -- well, his corpse, at the time. Though my nerds tell me there's not much to be learned from his blood without Howard Stark's notes." Fury sounds more annoyed than anything else. "I'm frankly surprised Uncle Sam hasn't gone after Stark the Younger over those." He makes a vaguely dismissive gesture, as if physically shuffling that stray thought aside. "I worry the administration may just double down and spin this as necessary for controlling dangerous mutant criminals. Maybe trot out a few subjects they actually did get from the prison system." His face contorts into an expression of distaste. "American public's long since forgotten about the eighth amendment, so it'll probably fly -- with the humans. Maybe with a lot of mutants, too, but enough of them will radicalize, and if they make a fuss you know that's all the excuse the feds need to come down hard. If they need an excuse at all." He drains his own glass and reaches for Pierce's. "If I can get enough dirt on this project, maybe we can keep them from whitewashing it as much as they'll probably want to. If it makes them look bad enough, the rest of the Security Council will gleefully follow China and Russia when they denounce the US, as if they weren't doing the same thing." "See, and here I thought you were just an avid collector of antiques, like me," Pierce replies, breathlessly chuckling. Then, more dour -- as Fury takes his glass. "That's pretty much how I expect it to go. This goes public in a big, nasty way -- a few mutants get radicalized, then go all... Magneto, or whatever. And now the government has the political capital they need to retroactively justify this. And with plenty left-over to make registration an even bigger debacle than it's going to be. They'll come down even harder, which will radicalize even more mutants, which will justify more violence, which... yadda yadda. Same old song." Pierce sighs, waiting for a refill: "And I'm really tired of dancing to it. I imagine you are, too. But... Nick, I know I've told you this before, but... these are dangerous people. Your little 'superhero' project? They've been building their own teams like that for years. Difference is, they have zero scruples about who makes the cut." Fury refills both of their glasses, focusing on this task with more intensity than is probably necessary. "It's an old song," he agrees. "And I'm sick of it, too. But nations run on inertia, and I don't expect this one'll change its tune anytime soon." He returns with fresh libations to fortify them against the grim conversation. "Oh hell, I know they're dangerous. But they're not going away, not even if this country fully commit to the genocide. And making dangerous people -- powerful dangerous people -- angry and desperate? That's how we end up with shit like Liberty Island." He sinks back down into his seat. "Don't get me wrong, I'm watching these extremists like a hawk and I wish to hell and back we had better tech for managing them. But I don't think leaning on them is how we're gonna stop this war." As Pierce accepts the glass, he grins: "I was referring to the people running the labs. I don't know all the details, but I know PMCs like Triple Canopy are involved -- and the exact second you get booted out of the military for being a mutant, one of their headhunters is beating down your door with a pen in one hand and a very generous three-year contract in the other." He then adds, minus the grin: "But I understand what you mean on the other side of this, too. Desperation makes people dangerous. Nothing is quite as powerful as a people with nothing left to lose." He contemplates the glass, then sips -- his voice is softer, now; trading out some of that easy-going bravado for something a little more cautious: "...I can try to help you on this, but you need to be discreet. We both want the same thing, here, but... you understand how this plays out if it goes wrong, right?" "Like it or not, these people are thought of as terrorists. And like it or not -- you're talking about siding with them. All but collaborating with them." "The mercenaries?" Fury's eyebrows lift up -- both of them, though the left one cannot go as high as the right one for all the scar tissue in the way. "I'm not too worried about them. They haven't shown a whole lot of initiative beyond their contracts, unless you know something I don't. The fact this rag-tag bunch of hippie anarchists have been trouncing them for years doesn't really speak highly to their competence, anyhow." He sips his scotch with a bit more deliberation this time, though he's certainly come nowhere near the limits of his tolerance just yet. "I would sorely appreciate any help you can offer, and I'll be discreet either way -- you know I can do that." He frowns down at his whiskey. "'Collaborating' is a strong word, but -- if that's what it takes to keep this from turning into all-out war, I'll do it. Still." The sharp twitch of his smile is somehow not completely mirthless. "I'm not eager to get myself or anyone else hanged over this."