Logs:Operation: A.G.E.N.T.
| Operation: A.G.E.N.T. | |
|---|---|
Abstruse Governmental Entities Neutralizing Terrorism | |
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2020-08-09 "How much shit are we looking at, and how big a fan?" |
| Location
<NYC> SHIELD HQ - Times Square | |
This corner office is big, bright and airy, which is not cheap to come by in midtown Manhattan. On one side, a huge glass desk sits in front of the floor-to-ceiling window looking out over Times Square. The far corner has a leather couch, a coffee table, a liquor cabinet and a sideboard, but the rest of the floor space was left open between bookshelves. "...It's actually a linguistic problem more so than an engineering one," Agent Leo Fitz is saying, bright and animated. "A fascinating one! Just not one that can be solved easily or quickly. I still think he'd be much better served by an implant, which we could do in-house, I'm sure, if that's a concern. I have so many ideas for improving on existing technology --" He actually cuts himself off before the man behind the desk does. Fury is sitting in his high-backed chair with his fingers steepled like a James Bond villain, dressed in a black button-down, vest, and trousers beneath his signature black leather cloak. "I don't care what ideas you have, Fitz. He doesn't want implants, so we'll work with what he's got, and what he's got is eyes we can put words in front of. In as many languages as he might encounter." Natasha Romanoff has not been invited to this meeting -- then again, to be fair, she hasn't been invited to any meetings here in quite some time. Undoubtedly there's some buzz in the building from the moment she enters. No doubt some of it has already rippled up to Fury sitting in the center of his web even before the door opens and Nat barges in, dressed comfortably un-businesslike in olive cargo shorts and a black fitted tank top emblazoned with a large gold hamsa with its middle finger up. Her brows have lifted as she enters, one hand resting on a plain canvas messenger bag at her side. "You know who's probably a better person to run those ideas by? The guy you're so eager to do surgery on." Fury does, in fact, look not even a little surprised at Nat's intrusion, his right eye unblinking and his left hidden behind a black leather eye patch. Fitz, on the other hand, practically jumps out of his lab coat. "Agent Romanoff!" he blurts, eyes wide. "Oh, I wouldn't be operating on Agent Barton, that's Simmons's wheelhouse, but I've been working with her on some --" This time Fury does cut him off with one upraised hand. "Fitz, just -- get the multilingual support straightened out. Lucky for you it's such a fascinating problem. If you insist on pestering Barton about the implants again, it's your funeral and free entertainment for the rest of us. Dismissed." He waits for the engineer to scurry off before turning his full attention to his unannounced visitor. "How much shit are we looking at, and how big a fan?" he asks wearily. Nat's fingers drum against the top of the bag, and the small twitch of her lips is not quite a smile. "Might be a matter of perspective," she answers Fury, the lift of her shoulder almost dismissive. "Depending on how the fallout's contained, a lot of people would say they're gearing up to do the world a favor." "'Matter of perspective'," Fury echoes, rising. "So, yes, I do want a drink with this news. I can't imagine they're doing the world a favor through civic participation and community service, but either way we got to be ready to contain it." He goes to his sideboard and splashes some cognac into a squat glass. "Any for you? Not sure if you're extracting yourself right this moment or what." "Sanitation workers are providing an important community service," Nat muses, striding over to accept a glass of her own with a small nod. "And I've heard that getting involved in electoral politics is some of the most important civic participation a citizen can do." She takes a small sip of the cognac, eyes drifting towards the huge wall of windows. "But assassinating the president might be a little too involved." Fury replaces the decanter and takes up his glass, leaning against the edge of his desk down instead of sitting back down. "Well. Wyngarde has guts, I'll give her that much. If she's trying to start an open war, that's a fine way of going about it." He takes a long pull at his drink, glowering into it for a moment. "I assume you've already tried re-directing them to something slightly less involved?" His eye snaps back up to Nat. "It'll be dangerous for you to go back in, if we intervene." "I think if you asked most of them, they'd say the war's been going on some time now." Nat's wrist rotates slowly, the cognac swirling in her glass. "They're very determined. The actual plan has been -- a little in flux. They're working around kind of a fickle schedule." Her mouth makes a very small moue, and she takes another swallow of her drink. "The convention was the original target, but that --" One fist lifts, fingers spreading upward to release a handful of nothing into the air. "I should stay until you're ready to move. Things could keep changing between now and then -- especially if one of their own goes missing." Fury's jaw works subtly. "I guess they ain't all wrong about that, either." His tone is fatalistic and not altogether unsympathetic. "I'll put assemble two teams: one for 45 and another for you -- just in case. If we can take care of this quietly, before Secret Service even knows they've been caught with their pants down, so much the better. If not..." He downs the entire rest of his drink grimly. "We're gonna want you ready to help clean it up." | |
