When the Lights Go On Again 3/19

[seanchai.livejournal.com]

Title: When the Lights Go On Again 3/19
Authors: seanchai and elspethdixon
Rated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony, Hank/Jan, Carol/Wanda
Warnings: No much, really. Some swearing and violence.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.
Summary: Aliens have invaded earth, and the Avengers are scattered. While Steve leads the resistance, Tony once again finds himself playing captive scientist. In the midst of a violent alien regime, separated by seemingly insurmountable boundaries, Steve and Tony have nothing to keep themselves going but each other.
Author's Note:The point in volume three that we're branching off from was originally published around '98-'99, but since Marvel time runs at a slower speed than real world time, early volume three is probably four or so years ago in canon time. Hence 2004 and troops in Iraq. Also, just a heads up; this fic is really, really long. Like, over two hundred pages long. We'll start by posting every other week, though we're hoping to start posting once a week, eventually.

X-posted to Marvel Slash.

Thanks to dallin_dae and saraid for the beta job.


When the Lights Go On Again



"She should be back by now."  Hank was pacing back and forth across the light green carpet, punctuating his words with short, jerky gestures.  "I knew I should have sent the ants instead.  Or gone myself."

That would have been too much of a risk, and they all knew it.  The Argonians were not only actively recruiting scientists; they had systematically made the rounds of New York's major academic and scientific institutions, shanghaiing anyone who didn't go willingly.  The Argonians had a disturbing amount of intelligence about Earth, and Hank wasn't exactly low profile, as a scientist or an Avenger.  That was probably part of what had them come calling at the Mansion, but that was the last thing Hank needed to hear at the moment.

"Sit down, Hank," Steve said.  "She's hasn't missed her check-in yet."  But she would, if she didn't return within the next ten minutes.

Steve would have liked to pace, but Hank had beaten him to the punch. Jan had been gone for nearly two hours.  Without functioning communicators, they'd have no way of knowing if she was caught unless she failed to return.

He wanted to burn off the nervous tension that was making his shoulders tight and his hands itch to be doing something.  Anything.  But Hank was already visibly agitated enough for both of them, so Steve didn't rise from his seate on the low, rose-coloured velvet settee.  He was the one everyone was relying on to be in command, to give the order.  He needed to seem calm, in control

At least the little sitting room they were in was more private than the open dining room at the center of the suite they were all sharing. Even if Steve had to stay calm, Hank could worry without having to worry about appearances.

"Ants can't bring back any detailed information," Wanda reminded Hank.  She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of Steve, pointedly not looking up every time Hank passed her.  "And you can't fly.  Jan has a better chance of getting in and out safely."

"The Falcon could send his bird and see if-"

"His wing was singed by one of the Argonian laser guns," Steve said, adding "Brooklyn Navy Yard" to the list of potential sites of strategic importance he was making.  He was using a large coffee able book full of photographs of the Waldorf-Astoria at its peak as a writing surface, since the little sitting room they were in only had a few, low coffee tables, which were useless for writing.  "He won't be able to fly for the next two-to-three weeks."  He recapped the grey Prismacolor marker and picked up an orange one, writing "LaGuardia airport" underneath it.  The hotel's complementary pens had already run dry, so the only remaining writing implements were his art supplies, which he and Wanda were currently sharing.

Redwing had been scouting the ongoing siege of the Baxter Building when one of the Argonians had taken a potshot at him.  Sam was livid.  Redwing was far more than just a pet to him; he'd referred to the bird as his "partner" for as long as Steve had known him.

When he, Hank, and Wanda had retreated to the small parlor to wait and worry for Jan in private, Steve had left Sam sitting at the dining room table, trying to change the bandage on a squawking and biting Redwing while Franklin and Valeria lurked in the doorway, watching the hawk with something approaching awe.  The suite only had six rooms, not counting the bathroom, and half the team was sleeping on the floor, so there was little space for the two children to play, and they seemed to be constantly underfoot.  And in a hotel room largely devoid of toys, with no functional television, Redwing was the best entertainment available.

"She should be back by now," Hank repeated, slamming a fist into his thigh in frustration.

"Hank, sit down."  Wanda pointed a green marker sternly in his direction.  "You're giving me a headache."

There was a faint tapping noise from the window.

Steve tensed, ready to spring to his feet if necessary.  Hank was already there.

"Jan!  You're back!"  He had the window up in moments, and Jan slipped inside, returning to full size as soon as she was through the narrow gap.

Jan closed the window behind her, then turned to face the rest of the room.  "They have Clint and Tony," she said, without preamble.

"They're keeping Tony here?" Steve wasn't sure if the rush of emotion he felt was relief or dread.

"What are they doing with Clint?" Wanda was on her feet now, leaving the discarded markers scattered on the floor.

Hank frowned, shaking his head.  "Tony and Clint are in New York?  Tony was taken in Seattle."

Which was a good point, but not the most important one.  "Did you see them?" Steve asked.  "What kind of shape are they in?"  Carol had told him that Tony was too badly injured to fight back, barely able to stand.  If the Argonians handled him too roughly... broken ribs could be forced into your lungs, internal damage could tear and hemorrhage, concussions could cause inter-cranial bleeding.  And Tony never took proper care of himself when he was hurt, to begin with.

The orange marker's plastic casing was beginning to bend under his grip, Steve realized.  He loosened his fingers, dropping it before it could break and leak ink all over the carpet that probably cost more than he did, and watched it roll across the green carpet pile toward Wanda.

If Tony were there, he would have argued that the supersoldier serum had definitely cost more than the carpet, provided one adjusted for inflation.  Clint would have smirked and said that both cost more than they were worth.

Clint.  Clint wouldn't have surrendered without a fight.  What had they done to take him down?  Steve had seen the bodies in Times Square, flesh cooked and blackened by Argonian laser guns or hacked into pieces.  It was far easier than he wanted to imagine Clint among them.  "How did they capture Clint?"

Jan made a face.  "They didn't capture him," she said, her voice wry with something that could have been either disgust or amusement.  "He's undercover.  They both are," she added.  "Tony surrendered so he could spy on them."

Of course he had.  Tony had never let any injury, no matter how severe, keep him out of a fight; if he'd been too badly hurt to walk, he would have programmed the armor to do it for him.  He would never have given in to them.  But pretending to give in was something different; a way to keep fighting, even after the Argonians thought they had beaten him.  "Does that mean you were able to make contact with them?" he asked.

Jan shook her head.  "Only with Clint.  I saw him in the main concourse.  It was pure, dumb luck.  He says they're keeping Tony on one of the lower levels, somewhere down really deep."

Damn.  That was going to make getting them out more difficult.  "We need to stay in contact with them," Steve said, half to himself, "look for a way to get them out of there."

"I could go in," Hank offered.  He was still standing by the window, to the right of and slightly behind Jan, one hand playing with the string for the blinds.  "They're looking for scientists, so if I went to them and volunteered-"

"No," Steve vetoed immediately, coming to his feet almost simultaneously with Jan's flat, "Absolutely not."

"They've already got two Avengers," Steve went on.  "We're not giving them any more."

Hank shook his head, taking a step away from the window.  "No, I mean, I have powers.  They don't.  I can shrink down, get in and out unseen, have the ants carry messages out-"

Steve overrode him.  "If they know anything about the Avengers, they'll know who you are, know that you and Tony know each other."

"I'm not doing anything useful here."  His voice was starting to rise, his hands clenching into fists again.  Jan crossed the room to stand beside him, though she remained silent.

"I won't be able to do anything useful. Not until somebody brings me something of the Argonians' to analyze," Hank finished, looking down, mouth drawn in a hard, unhappy line.

"No," Wanda said, "Cap's right.  It's a miracle they haven't connected Tony and Clint."

Jan put a hand on Hank's arm.  "You are not going.  You're the closest thing to someone with a medical degree that we have.  If someone here gets hurt, we'll need you here."

"Not to mention you're the only scientist we have," Wanda added.

Hank twitched his arm away from Jan's touch and took a step closer to Steve, his eyes pleading.  "Cap, I need to do something."  His voice was low now, rough with emotion.  "I'm useless stuck in here," he finished bitterly.

"No one else is going under."  Steve folded his arms across his chest, staring down at Hank in a way that hopefully communicated that the matter was absolutely closed.  "It could take weeks to deal with the Argonians, months."  Years, a little voice at the back of his mind whispered.  "And we may not be able to get Tony and Clint out."  Saying the words out loud made his stomach twist, but they needed to be said. "If you join them, you might be going in permanently.  I know you want to help, but-" he broke off, shaking his head.  He knew how Hank felt; more than anything else, Steve wished there were some excuse for him to go in, just to see Tony and Clint, to see for himself that they were really all right.  As it was, he was almost as completely cut off from them as he would have been if they were still outside the forceshield; if something went wrong, there was no way for him to intervene, no way to protect them.  They Argonians could execute them both tomorrow, and Steve wouldn't even know about it, would have no way of knowing, not for sure.

Hank started to object, then turned away sharply, throwing up his hands.

"I need you here, okay?" Jan said, voice quiet.  She turned away from him, and said, to Steve and Wanda, "I arranged to meet Clint the day after tomorrow, at noon by the clock."

"Good," Steve said.  "That's... good."  So Clint, at least, had some freedom of movement.  That would be useful in staging a rescue.  The problem would be Tony; not only would getting him out of there be incredibly difficult, finding him at all might be next to impossible.  Steve had seen the lower levels of Grand Central Station for himself, during the war, and he doubted they'd gotten any less labyrinthine in the sixty years since then.  "You'll need to talk to him, find out where all of the guards are stationed, how often they're relieved, how much trust they're actually giving human collaborators, what kind of other defenses they have in place."  If the Argonians had the technology to create the forceshield, they could have all kinds of nasty surprises set up inside the station.  Especially since they seemed to have chosen it as their main base of operations.  Steve shook himself, turning his attention back to the room.  "Anything he can tell us will be useful."

Jan folded her arms, matching Steve's posture, and lifted her chin, all business now.  "They have some kind of stratified hierarchy," she said.  "'According to Clint, the ones that wear black are in charge of the ones that wear grey.'" She shook her head, a small, quick motion.  "He's not sure who's calling the shots, whether it's this Imperator they've been mentioning in their broadcasts or someone called the Archon."

"The others need to hear this, too," Wanda said.  She bent down and collected her scattered markers, holding them out to Steve.  "I think Johnny Storm and Spiderman are out patrolling the city, but I can go get everyone else."

Steve nodded, accepting the markers.  "Good idea.  Tell them to meet us in the dining room."

Everyone moved towards the door.  Steve hesitated just long enough to collect the rest of the markers and his half-finished list; his carefully color-coded ranking of potential targets seemed less important, now.  They all knew what their main target would be.

The suite's massive oak dining table sat twelve, which meant that there was room for everyone in their makeshift team to have a seat, even the children; when Steve entered the dining room, everyone but Johnny and Valeria were already there.

"Where's Johnny?" He couldn't call him 'The Human Torch'; even after nearly a decade, that was still Jim Hammond's name.

"He's on his way," Ben Grimm said, just as the sound of running feet became audible.

"I'm gonna get you!" Johnny's voice echoed off the high ceilings.  "I'm gonna get you and toast you like a marshmallow!"

Valeria dashed into the room with a high-pitched squeal, Johnny only a couple of feet behind her.  As Steve watched, he lunged forward and grabbed her, and began tickling her ribs.

"Toast, toast, toast!"

"No!" she shrieked, giggling.  "No marshmallow!"

Ben cleared his throat.  "You want to leave so the grownups can talk now?"

Johnny immediately stopping the tickling and straightened up.  "No.  I'm good."  He turned to the still squirming Valeria and said, "You win.  No marshmallows.  Do you want to sit next to Franklin and color?"

A few minutes worth of cajoling later, Franklin and Valeria were quietly coloring with a pad of paper and Steve's markers, and the meeting could finally begin.

"The good news," Steve began, "is that we know where Hawkeye and Iron Man are.  The bad news is that they're underneath Grand Central Station, in one of the most heavily guarded Argonian outposts in the city, and we have no way of getting to them."  We're not giving up on them, he told himself.  Admitting that breaking in and finding Tony is impossible is not the same as giving up on him.

Simon frowned; he'd taken his habitual sunglasses off, and his red eyes gave the expression a sinister quality totally at odds with his personality.  He usually had better control over them, but when he was upset or distracted, they tended to glow.  "What kind of shape are they in?"

"Clint looked fine.  Tony, on the other hand..."  Jan shook her head.  "Clint says he's in rough shape."

Carol nodded once, confirming this.  "He was pretty beat up the last time I saw him."

"So, no dice getting them out?" Johnny Storm asked.  "You're sure?"  He had his chair turned around backwards, straddling it, his chin resting on his folded arms.  He looked about fourteen, though he had to be in his early twenties by now.

Bucky used to sit just like that, backwards on a folding camp chair, while he and Steve discussed their orders. Johnny was only a few years older than he had been when he died, and Spiderman... Steve had never been able to guess his exact age through the mask, but he knew he was young.  Very young.

"Not as things stand," Steve admitted.  "We need more information before we can even think about trying."

"Sounds like Hawkeye's working on that."  Ben Grimm shifted his weight in his chair, the wood groaning in protest.  "On the other hand, I may just be a big, dumb, hunk of rock, but it sounds to me like they're be more useful where they are."

"We're not leaving them in there," Jan snapped, glaring at him.

"We may not have a choice."  Carol's voice was grim.  "If their defenses are even half as good as their initial assault, then it would take all ten of us to even have a prayer of getting in.  We can't risk our entire force for two people."

Steve could read the signs of impending protest on half the faces in the room.  Even the wrinkles in Spiderman's mask -- the closest he could come to a facial expression -- looked mutinous.

"She's right," Steve announced, before the objections could start.  Not abandoning them, he reminded himself.  Not giving up.  "As far as we know, we might be the only people left in New York with the resources to fight back.  There will be other people who will be willing to help us, willing to resist the Argonians, but right now, we are the Resistance.  We can't risk losing before we've even started."

"We're not, actually.  I mean, not the only ones."  Spiderman shifted awkwardly in his chair.  "I, um, talked to a friend of mine who works for the Daily Bugle.  He says they're trying to set up some kind of radio broadcast to get news out to people."

Hank's eyebrows rose.  "How, exactly?  The power's still down."

"Someone might possibly have set up a generator in their basement for them.  With, um, stuff stolen from Doc Ock's old lab."  If a red and blue web-patterned mask could look embarrassed, this one did.  "They already had everything else.  I think Jameson keeps a five megawatt broadcasting tower just for situations like these."  He shrugged.  "People wouldn't need electricity to listen, just a battery-powered radio."

"That's a good idea, Spiderman." Very good, actually.  Information was one of the most vital tools of warfare, and hearing news, even bad news, was better for civilian moral than silence.  "But how do we know the Argonians aren't monitoring radio frequencies?"

"We don't.  Which is why Jameson's going to broadcast messages for us in code.  You know, like those guys in the Pacific in World War Two, except not in another language."

"Jameson's agreed to deliver messages for us?" Carol scowled.  "He'd never do that.  He hates us.  Plus, he despises the entire non-print media."

"Yeah," Spiderman said, nodding, "he said that, but after a couple minutes of ranting he admitted that he hated the idea of living under the iron heel of alien oppression more."

"If that doesn't work, Redwing can carry messages."  Sam spoke up for the first time, lifting his eyes from the set of building plans he'd been studying.  "He's faster and smarter than a homing pigeon."

Johnny gave Redwing -- currently perched on Sam's shoulder -- a considering glance.  "I thought his wing wouldn't be better for another two weeks?"

"Kid, this is going to take a lot longer than two weeks," Ben grunted.  Without turning around he added, "Franklin, I'm sure that when you're finished, you're going to turn Captain America's marker back to the color it started out as."

Startled, Steve glanced over at the two children and saw that the orange marker he'd given Franklin was now an intense shade of turquoise.

"I wouldn't have to make it different colors if Valeria would share!" Franklin protested.

Valeria clutched her fistful of markers to her chest.  "Mine!" she insisted.  "Want to color!"

A crying toddler was the last thing they needed right now.  "Let her have them," Steve said.  "You can make the marker whatever color you want; I don't mind."

"Mine," Valeria repeated smugly.  She set the markers down carefully on the table next to her, gave them a proprietary little pat, and picked up the pink one.

"If Mom were here," Franklin muttered, "she'd make her share."

"We're going to go home soon," Johnny told him.  "Then you can tell your mom and dad all about it, okay?  But right now we're camping out here so they can have some alone time.  It's like an adventure."

Franklin glared at him with all the contempt of a six year old who knew perfectly well that he was being lied to. "We're stuck here because aliens took over the city and Uncle Ben just said we were gonna be here a long time.  I hate this hotel.  It's stupid."

Johnny blinked.  "Um, Ben, you want to field this one?"

Ben folded his arms across his chest, causing the chair to groan ominously again -- Steve really hoped the probably antique furniture wasn't going to break -- and stared at Franklin.  "Don't be rude, Franklin.  The Avengers are being nice and letting us stay with them."  He raised one rocky eyebrow at Johnny.  "Why don't you take 'em outta the room, kid?"

"Why do I-"

"The Argonians have our teammates locked in their basement," Wanda said pointedly, cutting him off.  "Please take the children out of here so we can figure out how to change that."

Johnny made a face, but stood.  "Come on," he said, gathering up the art supplies.  "Let's go color in the living room.  There's more light in there, anyway."  He picked up Valeria and started for the door.

Valeria waved at Sam and Redwing over his shoulder, while Franklin followed behind them, looking slightly sullen.

"We're not getting them out."  Carol was sitting stiffly upright in her chair, hands folded on the table in front of her.  "Cap's right; it would be too expensive.  And even if we could break in to reach them without half of us getting killed, somebody would have to carry Tony out.  I could do it, or Steve could, or Ben, but not and fight at the same time.  I don't know what kind of energy their weapons shoot out, but it's something I can't absorb."  She touched the angry red burn on her cheek with one fingertip.  "This came from one of their cannons.  If I'm not immune to their weapons, then even Simon and Ben might be just as vulnerable to them as the rest of us."

"We're not leaving them there."  Wanda made a short, angry gesture, fingers stiff.  "They're our teammates.  We don't abandon teammates!"

Carol snorted, tossing her hair back over one shoulder.  "Well, that's news to me," she muttered.

Steve had the strong feeling that he'd completely lost control of the discussion.  They didn't have time for this, not in the middle of a war zone.

Children to protect, Carol still nursing a grudge, Johnny and Spiderman's inexperience; they were barely more than children themselves, like Justice and Firestar -- still missing, after three days -- and Steve was going to have to send them into combat, just as he was going to have to let Tony and Clint stay in what amounted to the lion's den. He just hoped his decision wasn't going to get them killed.  He didn't know how he'd live with himself if it did.

"Just one conversation with Clint," he said, "and we already know more about the Argonians than we did before, more than we could have found out this quickly on our own.  We know they have their forces divided into groups, soldiers and civilians, which means they're here to do more than just conquer us.  Non-military personnel, plus attempts to keep order in the city means they're here to stay, at least until we can throw them out.  We know their leader is one of two men, and that they're desperate enough to be willing to recruit humans to fill out their security and labor forces.  And that they're keeping Tony in one of their sub-basements, which means they have the scientists under close watch, even the ones they think volunteered."

"Yeah, speaking of basements, remind me to talk to you later about ours," Sam said, tapping the building plan he'd been studying with one finger.  "These plans don't add up, and they don't match the city's utility and subway maps.  There's something under us.  We need to check that out, too, before we get aliens coming up the service elevator."

As if they didn't have enough other things to worry about.  "Good catch," Steve said.  Thank God they had someone on their side who actually knew how to read blueprints, and would catch that on his own initiative.  "We'll need to send people down to check it out."  On top of Jan's attempt to re-establish contact with Clint, the need to locate the rest of their missing teammates, the need to start making contact with whatever military and police forces were left in the city, getting word to Jameson and the Bugle staff to set up a code for radio broadcasts...

He missed Tony's presence at his side right now so much that it hurt, missed being able to count on Clint's solid -- if frequently argumentative -- backup.  This would be so much easier with his entire team present.

"Subway maps," Simon repeated.  "Maybe we could get into Grand Central through the subway.  There are miles of tracks down there; they can't guard them all."

"No."  Hank interrupted his sulking long enough to give Simon a look that was clearly meant to impart that he was an idiot.  "All they have to do is guard the platform.  And if anyone stumbles out of the miles and miles of pitch-black tunnels, they shoot them."

"If we actually find Grand Central at all."  Sam pushed his maps to one side, rescuing a corner of one from Redwing's beak, and leaned forward over the table.  "There are intersecting tunnels, dead ends, entire sections of track that are totally closed off.  And not all of them are still marked on maps."

"Actually," Spiderman made a tentative gesture with one hand, as if he'd been about to raise it like a kid in school, and then thought better of it, "I think the aliens are already using the subway tunnels.  Daredevil's been down there.  He says the third rail is still hot.  And trains are still running somewhere under the city.  He's heard them."

Hank shook his head.  "They can't be.  The first thing the Argonians hit was the Con Edison power plant.  There's no power on the island that isn't coming from a generator."

Powers... power and subway tracks and Grand Central.  Why did that sound familiar?  Steve frowned, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Something's powering that force bubble, and it's not an emergency generator."  Carol was frowning off into space now too, eyes unfocussed.  "I wonder how much power that takes.  Reed or Tony would know."

"They have power in Grand Central, too," Jan said.  "The lights were on.  They were dimmer than normal, but they were on."  She groaned, resting her chin on one hand.  "I can't believe I didn't pay more attention to that."

Ben nodded.  "That's probably where they're keeping whatever's powering their big forcefield bubble."

Where they were... "I know where they've got it," Steve blurted out.  "I know how to get there."

Everyone turned to stare at him, including Redwing.  "There's a massive set of converters under Grand Central Station that carry the power loads for the entire subway system.  If they're powering the tracks, their power source, whatever it is, has to be patched in to that room."  One single site that controlled the power for the entire New York City rail system -- it had been a major strategic target during the war, and he and Bucky had caught a pair of German agents red-handed in an attempt to sabotage it.

Back then, a single bucket of sand thrown into one of the turbines would have been enough to wipe out the power supply for the entire New York City subway.  These days, he was betting it was more complicated than that.  But still-- "There's only one entrance, and it's a closely guarded secret, or at least it was.  You take an elevator to--" And then the rest of the exactly what that meant caught up with him.  "We can't get in there," he interrupted himself.  He shook his head, the sudden elation draining a way as Jan's words from earlier came back to him.  They're keeping Tony on one of the lower levels, somewhere down really deep "Not into the middle of their base and past the guards they'll have on that elevator.  And it's dug out of the city's bedrock, so we can't even tunnel in."

"A secret room with one elevator?"  Jan sounded as if she wanted to ask Steve if he was sure, as if she wanted him to tell her he'd made a mistake.  "Clint said they were keeping Tony somewhere deep under the station that could only be reached by a single elevator."  She looked at Steve, and though her expression was calm and set, he had known her long enough to see the pain beneath it.  "We really do have to leave them in there, don't we?"

Steve nodded, hating himself for it.

Wanda glared down at the table; arms folded, but said nothing.  Spiderman began to tentatively raise his hand again, then dropped it and sighed heavily.

"So what are we going to do?" Hank asked.  "I, obviously, am going to continue to sit here and do nothing while Jan sneaks back into Grand Central to talk to Hawkeye, but what's everybody else going to do?"

"Our original plans haven't changed."  Steve nodded at Wanda.  "We just have a little more information to work with now."

Wanda sat up a little straighter, unfolding her arms.  "We're still working on the details, but in two days, I'm going to try and make contact with that destroyer docked at the Navy Yard.  It's still afloat, so there might still be people on it." Steve personally doubted that; given the carnage in Times Square, it was all too easy to imagine the Argonians slaughtering the entire crew and leaving the empty ship floating at anchor as some kind of statement or warning.  But even a very slim chance that there might be someone left alive was too important not to investigate.

He turned to Carol, inwardly bracing himself for an argument.  "Carol, I want you to go with her."  He'd initially planned to send Simon with Wanda as back-up, in case the Argonians had someone watching the ship, but while Carol's powers might not be up to their previous levels, she was still one of the strongest members of the team, and the only one other than himself and Ben Grimm with a military background.  "Remember, nothing flashy. And the travel passes the Argonians have been giving out only cover one borough, so don't get caught crossing the river."

Carol nodded sharply.  "What about Fort Hamilton?  It looked gutted when I flew over."

"We're checking that one out," Sam gestured at himself and Steve.  "Cap and I are going over there with Wonder Man, provided we can get across the river."

"Yeah, I know," Spiderman observed.  "It kind of sucks.  How come all the military stuff is in Brooklyn?"

"Because Manhattan doesn't have enough room for it," Jan told him, tone dry.

Spiderman nodded, then added, "I think I technically have work tomorrow. I know some people on the Bugle's staff, and I'm supposed to help get their radio set up. We're still working on how to mask the signal's location and get the code set up for sensitive transmissions.  I'll tell the rest of you guys the code when we've got it finished; Johnny and I already have some ideas."

"If you want to stay here for the night-" Steve began.  He was pretty sure Spiderman lived somewhere in Queens, which was a long and dangerous journey at the moment.

Spiderman shook his head.  "Naw, I'm staying with some friends in midtown."

Wanda raised her eyebrows. "Speaking of your friends and acquaintances in the city, I'd like you to carry a message to them for me."

The cloth mask took on a "politely confused" aspect; Steve wasn't sure how.  "What message?"

"There aren't enough of us to confront the Argonians head-on, so we need to start organizing focused attacks to sabotage Argonian installations," Steve explained.  "Wanda's going to be in charge of that end of things."  The Argonians had force and numbers on their side, but if they could make staying on Earth expensive and unpleasant enough... well, wars had been won that way before.  Not cleanly, though.  Guerilla tactics weren't something you could use and still keep a clear conscience.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to try, though.

Wanda nodded.  "Little things for now, to inconvenience them and slow them down.  You know a lot of people who are good at that."

"Yeah, and most of them are a) locked up in Rikers, and b) hate me."

"Ask Matt Murdock, then," Ben rumbled.  "You know, the lawyer?  He and his partner know every super-powered criminal in the city, and they're the only other people Daredevil will talk to."

"Daredevil's not really a people person," Spiderman agreed, "but I think I can get him to help us without siccing lawyers on him.  And he knows even more costumed scum than I do."  He though for a second, head cocked slightly to one side.  "I think they all hate him even more, though."

"He also knows the Kingpin."  And talking to him would be the first step in getting their collective hands dirty.  But he had resources they were going to need -- at the very least; they needed the city's underworld to not be working against them.

"You're not seriously thinking of asking Wilson Fisk for help?"  The little ridges of rock that were Ben's version of eyebrows lowered.  "He's more trouble than he's worth."

Which was probably true, Steve thought.  "Yes," he said, "but he's the only law Hell's Kitchen has right now, and we can't afford to fight his people and the Argonians at the same time."  Or let him think that the fact that the police force was out of action meant that it was open season on crime, though the Argonians themselves seemed to already be taking care of that.

Steve sighed.  He was sending people to make deals with criminals, splitting his team into twos and threes to stay under the Argonians' radar despite the fact that it made them painfully vulnerable to attack, and keeping one of his oldest friends and most experienced teammates on the sidelines because there was a price on his head. And Tony and Clint were alone in the middle of the enemy's headquarters, where Steve was leaving them.  "If this lasts long enough, we're going to end up doing a lot of things we don't want to do."

***

*There is a muffled cough, and the sound of someone shuffling papers, then clearing his throat.*

"Good evening, New York. This is the Daily Bugle, broadcasting to you live. Our top story tonight is the Argonian occupation."

"Obviously. What other news is there that's worth printing? You sound like an idiot, Urich. I don't pay my writers to sound like idiots."

"Jonah, we're on the air."

*muffled sounds of talking, sound of papers rustling*

"Eight days after the onset of the Argonian invasion, their takeover appears complete. Without electricity or public transportation, totally cut off from the outside world, New York City has the feeling of a post-apocalyptic war zone. After sunset, the entire island of Manhattan is dark, even the neon and bill boards of Times Square extinguished, save for a single billboard the Argonians have been using to broadcast information to the city's populace.

"At least half the city's population has fled, and those who remain within the four boroughs of Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx have no way of knowing what has become of their friends and family outside the city. The massive dome of energy erected by Argonian forces is an impenetrable barrier, blocking not just entrance and egress, but all communication as well.

"City hospitals, running on generator power, are strained to maximum capacity as refugees flock to them, fleeing burned out apartment buildings and destroyed houses. The fires that raged in the wake of the initial attacks laid waste to several blocks of downtown Manhattan real estate, leaving many people who were unable to escape the city before the Argonian force field was erected with no place to go.

"City police forces, decimated by Argonian attacks, are completely overwhelmed, and other city services have vanished entirely.

"The picture is not entirely bleak -- electricity has been lost, but running water is still available, and the early outbreaks of looting that threatened to spread throughout the city in the initial days after the invasion have ended, quelled, ironically, by Argonian occupying forces.

"Headquartered underground in New York's subway system, the Argonians have assumed control of what remains of the city's government..."

***

The Imperator had established his command center in a spacious, high-ceilinged hall that branched off the side of the main entrance hall. Its name, Vanderbilt, rolled pleasantly off the tongue, and Irkalla had asked one of the translators what it meant only to be told that it was the name of the human who had funded its construction.

Humans were not very creative. Their city's large transportation hub's name was apparently an English phrase that literally meant "great big train station." This lack of creativity in the matter of names seemed to be a pervasive feature of their culture -- the city's streets were identified via a numerical system; the huge, wooded expanse in the center of the city's name meant "park in the middle of the city;" and the city itself shared the same name as the principality it served as the capitol of.

It was strange that a species so utterly prosaic was capable of making their architecture so decorative -- the time-telling device in the center of the entrance hall was a true work of art, as were the gold light fixtures. Even the ceilings were beautiful; the entrance hall's had been painted to resemble a field of stars, and the wooden paneling in her new royal apartments was covered in colorful geometric patterns.

It was a shame that the rest of this miserable planet did not live up such high standards.

Irkalla sighed, and turned her attention from the warm sheen of the stone floor to the equally pleasant sight of Arch-Captain Mamitu and Sub-Captain Aanepada limbering up before combat.

The Arch-Captain was a proud, cruel woman with a notoriously short temper. Irkalla personally found her presence grating and her attitude when delivering official reports verged on openly disrespectful, if not toward the Imperator, then definitely toward Irkalla herself, but by Alulim, the woman could fight, and it was always a pleasure to watch skill in action.

She wasn't sure what offense Mamitu had offered the sub-captain, but given her habit of snarling at her subordinates, it could have been just about anything. Or maybe this was one of the rare challenges motivated solely by ambition; if the sub-captain were lucky enough to win, he would gain considerable respect for doing so.

Mamitu, on the other hand, had little to gain and everything to lose in this fight, given that a defeat at the hands of a warrior of inferior rank would destroy her influence over her troops and potentially end her career.

Centuries ago, before the Argonians had gone into space, a warrior who defeated his or her commander in single combat would have won the right to take their place. Those days were long over, but the stigma of being unable to defend one's command had not faded.

"This should prove no contest."

Irkalla stiffened as the Imperator's tail brushed gently against her shoulder. It was a more intimate gesture than she would ever have willingly permitted, had the two of them not been in public, and she resisted the impulse to pull away.

"She is one of my best," he continued.

Irkalla would have loved to disagree, simply on principle, but the Arch-Captain's skill was obvious simply from the fluid, economical quality of her movements.

"He should have known better than to make the challenge," she agreed. If Irkalla were very fortunate, the sub-captain would be gifted with a stroke of good luck and would actually win -- his own motions as he examined his weapons and adjusted the fit of his tailblade indicated that he was at least competent -- and the Arch-Captain would be forced to lose some of that pride.

And Nergal would lose one of his staunchest supporters within the army.

Once, she would not have had to worry about the number of his supporters. Before Argon fell, Imperator Nergal had been just one of four military leaders on Irkalla's council, sharing the command of the army with three other officers. Had the rest of the council still been living, he would have been no threat to her; she was the Archon, the sole living descendant of Alulim, the Bringer of Unity, who had turned the Argonians from a mass of barbarian tribes fighting over which branch of caverns they called home into a great empire.

No, she had been the Archon. Now she was little more than Nergal's prisoner. But then, he was her prisoner, too.

The two of them were trapped in a relationship of mutual hatred formed by necessity. As the only surviving member of the Argonian high command, Nergal had total authority over the military, and since the army had always been both the strong arm and the heart of the Argonian Empire, and was now the backbone of the little of it that remained, that gave him de facto control of the empire itself.

Mamitu and the sub-captain had finished preparing and were standing facing one another, some twelve feet apart. They saluted one another sharply with their tails, and began.

The two of them circled slowly around one another, keeping to the edge of the dueling circled, searching for an opening in their opponent's defenses.

"It is folly," Irkalla continued, aloud, "to seek battle with an opponent stronger than you when other options still present themselves."

"I'm glad you realize that." Nergal nodded approvingly at her, his ears confidently erect. Either he was deliberately ignoring her pointed jab at the Argonian's desperately over-extended position on Earth, or he was truly so arrogant that he took her words as a sign of capitulation, an admission that he was too powerful for her too resist.

While Nergal had been the only Imperator to survive the fall of Argon, he had not been the only council member to do so. Irkalla had left Argon with the seven members of her council reduced to but three.

Gudea, the oldest member of the council, had been her advisor since childhood. He had succumbed to a sudden, wasting illness on the transport ship, mere weeks after their journey had begun. Naram-Sin, the speaker for the artisan class, had been killed in an accident only days after Gudea's death.

She had no proof that Nergal had arranged their deaths, but it had left her completely without allies, and there had been no voice left to speak against his decision to invade Earth. None but her own, and her voice carried little more than symbolic weight so long as Nergal was the one with control of the army.

The sub-captain struck out with one of his short swords, aiming for Mamitu's midsection. She twisted sideways, the blade sliding past her harmlessly, and lashed out with her tail, attempting to knock his feet out from under him.

The sub-captain skipped back, barely managing to avoid the blow, and got his swords up just in time to block Mamitu's return strike.

"Only a fool would fail to see it," Irkalla said. "I would be undone without your support," she went on, making an effort to keep her voice pleasant and her ears at a calm, slightly submissive angle. "Without your leadership and advice, we would never have taken this planet." And they would not have been currently stuck on an inhospitable world where the sun was too bright, most of the planet's surface was covered in undrinkable water, and the native population was vast and well armed.

The remnants of the once-undefeated Argonian army were not enough to achieve total control over the planet; they had had to settle for seizing and occupying select cities instead, and even their grip on those was uncertain. Only on this island was their rule absolute, thanks largely to the Shield of Alulim, which allowed them complete control over all entrance and egress, as well as shielding them from air and ground based attacks.

But the Shield required energy, enough energy to power a tesseract drive, and cannibalizing the rest of their transport ships to erect shields over the other cities was not a viable option; it would leave them trapped, with no ability to retreat.

Even removing the power core from one ship was a risk -- if they were forced to retreat now, it would mean leaving behind nearly a tenth of her people, a sacrifice that Nergal was clearly all too willing to make.

Mamitu was on the attack now; having finished sizing the sub-captain up, she was driving him back across the circle with a flurry of blows from swords and tailbarb. She used her tail mostly as a goad, the barb at its tip leaving long scratches across his arms and face as she tried again and again to disarm him.

"A week ago, you were thoroughly set against taking this planet." Nergal was no longer looking at her, watching the ongoing duel intensely. "You wanted us to keep moving, to take the crumbs of information that Kree creature on the human's moon gave us and limp away to continue licking our wounds."

"The Supreme Intelligence was willing to trade for more information. You only wanted to learn about Earth's resources and centers of power, about the humans' defenses and who their scientists and leaders were. If you had been willing to offer it more information in return, it could have given us the knowledge we need to repair our ships' drives, to replace their power cores, to restock our armories. We could have had mobile shields around our star ships again, long-range nuclear missiles again -- plasma cannons and incendiary bombs only work at short range." And they didn't work at all in hard vacuum. The Argonians had had weapons that would work in deep space once, and missiles that could be deployed on a planet from orbit.

They had lost that. As their empire grew to include neighboring star systems, and more and more of the labor unfit for warriors had been assigned to non-Argonian slaves, fewer and fewer Argonian artisans had been trained to perform the work of building and maintaining their machinery. The last Argonians who had possessed those skills had been killed when Argon had fallen, and the slaves had been left behind. Every available space on the evacuation ships had gone to an Argonian, one of the few orders Nergal had given that Irkalla had fully agreed with.

"We could have built new weapons and power sources ourselves," she went on, her tail lashing just once as control momentarily escaped her, "and been dependent on no one. Instead, we sit here wasting our resources trying to hold this world."

Nergal's ears twitched back. "The price was too high. You would have handed our secrets away to that alien thing, for it to tell to anyone who cared to ask."

"Some risks are worth taking for the gain they bring," she snapped. Nergal was still not looking at her, clearly considering her an unnecessary distraction, less important than watching two of his subordinates fight.

The sub-captain was rallying now -- he had been holding back earlier, she saw, trying to lull Mamitu into underestimating him. Now, he pressed the attack once more, this time succeeding in landing a blow, his tail blade leaving a bleeding gash across her thigh.

Mamitu stumbled, her lips drawing back in a snarl that pulled at the scars on her cheek.

"Yes, exactly," Nergal said. His voice remained clam, but the tip of his tail was twitching, the light from the golden chandeliers flashing off the tip of his tailblade. "We need this world, Archon. We need their scientists, their mineral deposits, their manpower to replenish our labor forces. Do you want to wait ten years before we can travel through space freely again? Twenty?" He shook his head sharply, disgust obvious in the angle of his ears. "It would take that long and longer to do it your way, and by then Argon would be lost beyond reclaiming. And where do you think we would live in the meantime? We would run out of resources far more quickly your way. But then, what ought I to expect from a woman who has never known battle? You have been coddled and sheltered all your life; you cannot understand what it is that made Argon great, what will make us great again. Of course you look for the coward's way out."

The sub-captain lunged forward, sword extended for a killing blow, and Mamitu dropped low, his arm passing over her head, and rolled, slashing out at his tail with her sword and coming to her feet behind him.

Nergal smiled fiercely, his lips curling back from his teeth in that way that Irkalla particularly hated. "Beautiful," he murmured.

"She missed." Irkalla countered. "His tail is not bleeding."

Nergal nudged her gently with the end of his tail, the point of its blade a sharp prick through the thick cloth of her robes. "Watch."

The sub-captain spur, snarling, his tail whipping to the side as he moved. There was a flashing arc of light as the metal of his tailblade clattered to the floor, one of the straps that had held it in place completely severed.

He lunged for Mamitu, both swords cutting toward her in broad arcs. There was a clang audible even from where Irkalla stood as Mamitu brought her own blades up, catching each blow, and then the drawn out screech of metal on metal as his swords slid along hers, until they hit the notch cut into the middle of each blade and the weapons locked together.

With a swiftness that Irkalla couldn't help but admire, Mamitu had the end of her tail at his throat, the point of her tailbarb pressing against his windpipe.

The sub-captain sagged, and his swords clattered to the floor. Mamitu had not simply defeated him, but shamed him -- rather than striking a fatal blow, she had rendered useless or taken away all of his weapons, and forced him to yield. There would be no advancement through the ranks for him now, not unless he found some way to wipe clean the stain of this defeat. Of being made to stand weaponless before his commander and all the others who had come to watch.

The Imperator turned back to Irkalla, still smiling that fierce, proud smile. "She severed the strap as she rolled under his tail," he informed her, the faintest edge of condescension in his tone. "Only a warrior would have noticed it."

Irkalla pulled her ears back, her tail twitching. "You have made your point, Imperator," she spat. "But remember this: I am Alulim's heir. I am Argon. Without me, there is no empire."

The fight was over; there was no reason to remain any longer. Keeping her head high, Irkalla turned her back on Nergal and strode out of the room, her honor guard -- all Nergal's handpicked men -- following in her wake.

Nergal might have her outmatched and at his mercy, but he needed her presence to legitimize his authority. She might not be strong enough to defy him, but he couldn't afford to kill her the way he had her other advisors.

No matter how powerless he thought her, Irkalla had one final weapon in the blood in her veins. Alulim's blood, the bloodline every Argonian soldier and mechanikos was sworn to obey. It was his hand that had made them a people, his sword and tailblade that had carved them a path to greatness, his words that had given them their codes of honor and laws, made them warriors instead of mere barbarians.

That was what truly made them Argonian. And that was what Irkalla embodied. And what, given time, she would make the barb at Nergal's throat.

Men had only the weapons they won for themselves, and those could be taken away. Women were born armed.

And one day, she would see to it that Nergal was made to remember that.

***


Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five (a) | Chapter Five (b) | Chapter Six (a) | Chapter Six (b) | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty (a) | Chapter Twenty (b) | Chapter Twenty One