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cap_ironman2009-01-12 09:37 pm
simmysim.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2009-01-12 09:37 pm
Entry tags:
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Title: What If: Project Wide Awake
Rating: PG-13
Summary: So what if Steve's side had won, and Big Brother just started shanking everyone?
Word Count: 4000
Author's Note: omg you guys![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
onewayfreak is an angel
For a while, they wonder if Tony had been a Skrull, too. It would make such a neat, happy end, and he'd disappeared so suspiciously fast after the battle. But too many details just don't fit, and after the final sweep of the globe turns up Skrull free -- save the handful of publicly known, human alliance sort -- the idea dies out.
Tony Stark is simply in seclusion, as per usual once his life collapses in on itself. Steve's counting the days it takes for the other man to finish licking his wounds, ready to make amends, claiming there's yet another anonymous bodyguard flying the Iron Man suit, and he's beginning to wonder how he ever fell for that to begin with.
The others celebrated, of course, first the abolishment of the Registration Act, and then the overwhelming victory over the following Skrull invasion, but Steve feels no real sense of triumph in either.
There's relief, yes, but it's heavy with the same sort of bitterness that weighed on him after hearing Bucky had died -- but hey, the Nazis hadn't taken over the world!
For as close as the SHRA was to passing, the supporters are surprisingly silent in their loss. Perhaps the invasion had been too much for both sides to take. Perhaps the threat was a reminder of why they used to trust heroes to begin with, but Steve knows that's foolishly optimistic.
Still, status quo is slowly pulled back to its teetering feet, the little resistance it faces usually going hand in hand with spiteful, anti-mutant rhetoric, and Steve finds himself repeatedly crushing the ridiculous urge to defend the SHRA. It hadn't been that bad, honestly, and he looks forward to the day that he and Tony can argue about what could've, should've, might've like rational human beings.
*
Some days, it's hard to believe Senator Brickman puts any effort into his reports beyond trying to offend as many opponents as possible.
His commentary is shameless, laughably so, the bias virtually parodying itself. Even the staunchest supporters of the SHRA would hesitate before calling the invasion 'playground bullying on a global scale,' that mayhem had 'gleefully played out on top of the terrified public,' that super powered beings, uncaring of the body count or outright demolition the city had drawn out the entire affair' or to insinuate that Reed Richards had somehow masterminded the entire thing, 'in an obvious and pathetic play for public sympathy.'
In truth, Brickman does not mean them. They're simply to get a rise out of Tony Stark, who always responds to such commentary, always, regardless of how ridiculous, even if it's a sardonic offer to fact check for the next report Brickman intends for public viewing. Even if Stark's in so-called seclusion, even if he's off world, in other galaxies, Stark is quick to contain and correct such comments, even if they're absurd, and silence would be the only mature response.
But, Tony Stark does not rise to the bait, and Brickman's real response sits, unsaid.
Detractors eventually step forward, responses tainted with varying degrees of amusement and disdain, but by then the silence has stretched long enough that Brickman's eyes have shifted to another, much larger prize. A few casual barbs more, poking, prodding, and it's clear that Stark has abandoned this cause, leaving the mice to play.
*
Get out of NYC
Steve closes his phone on the ominous warning.
It came from 0-0000000000, and Hank can't make heads or tails of it, eventually saying with some confidence that it's a prank, warning Steve to hold his private number a little closer. If he's wrong, they'll find out soon enough. Either way, if there's a threat on the city, Steve's not going to be anywhere but facing it head-on.
*
Reed Richards tries, he really does, but the role Stark had occupied was so specialized. It's not an easy thing to swim with the sharks, with enough cunning and finesse to keep from being bit without becoming one, but Stark had managed as best he could.
Richards flounders. He can see what's happening, knows what they're trying, but his rebuttals are too harsh, too blunt, pages and pages on end in a dry, unpleasant detail. Bogged down so heavily it's a hard read for even his supporters.
Sticking to the issue at hand instead of stooping snide insults, triple meanings, creating connections of any sort, his reports and calculations are reduced to white noise, and he flings endless numbers and logistics over their heads.
Still, he is a weight, he is a name, and Mister Fantastic's presence is enough to hold the tide. But only for a moment.
*
Steve's seen too many cops dead at the hands of mindless, careless temper tantrums to oppose new, updated weaponry. Tony -- before he'd gone insane the first time -- he'd always been willing to send off promising prototypes to the men in blue, always thought it important that the public at large be able to hold their own against a world of rapidly strengthening tech, and therefore rapidly strengthening criminals. Steve can't disagree.
It is uncomfortable, firepower that looks capable of taking down Luke Cage being handed out for daily use to street cops, after all that went down, but it does make a sad sort of sense.
There's no serious talk of renewing the act -- as far as he knows, but Reed and Hank and Tony had been aware of it for years before anything came of it -- and Steve isn't going to push this.
*
Superheroes do go missing, it goes hand in hand with the job.
The Baxter Tower's lights do go out, for months at a time, and the family will return, bruised and battered but fine, with a story of some strange galaxy, some strange monster, gods and hells.
There is no cause for alarm.
*
Verizon goes down first. There's a wailing, public outcry and Steve watches with some amusement at their utter indignation at the inconvenience. The people of the northeast quickly are assured it's a minor technical problem, a simple fix.
The promises end abruptly about an hour later, when the rest of New York's cell phones become useless, flashy paperweights.
Landlines still function, of course, and Steve would like to laugh at Jan's shaking head and muttered curses at such a hassle, but well honed instincts prickle at his shoulders, something Very Bad coming. Steve steels himself for it, and thinks wistfully that now would be a particularly good time for Tony to show his face again, because even as they're saying it's down, there's no fixing it, Tony had always been able to prove them wrong with a flick and tweak.
*
0-0000000000 says:
get Pete out nyc
That's a bit more than a prank, and Steve stiffens the moment he reads it, and before he can investigate, wonder at how this message managed to have service when the rest of the city is in a black out, a minivan filled with screaming kids is thrown through his living room.
Steve takes the raging, incoherently stampeding Rhino down after too long of a struggle, too much damage, but luckily no serious injuries.
When the officers arrive, Rhino becomes suddenly capable of human speech, roaring, "Wasn't doin nothin! Mindin my own business!" which is a fairly blatant lie and unhelpful to say the least. Spider-man would no doubt know what his malfunction was, courtesy of that bizarre bond that develops between a hero and his rogue gallery after enough time. But Peter stepped down from Avenging once his aunt passed, and if there's any formal way to get his attention beyond drawing a gigantic message in the sky with fire, Steve doesn't know it.
He waits, not entirely patiently, for the sedatives kick in and drop Rhino, then barrels down the eerily webless city.
Mary Jane and Pete had found a modest townhouse after leaving Stark Tower, and were still in the process of unpacking, the last Steve had seen. He'd waved them well, forced down the cookies Mary Jane had made as thanks for helping unload their heavier belongings.
Steve finds a for rent sign back up in the yard, the rooms silent and empty.
*
Where is Peter? Who is this?
It takes 0-0000000000 three hours to reply, just to the one word response; friend
When he types back, Tony? he gets the now accustomed out of service error.
*
It comes apart pretty fast after that, piece by piece, as if they were hardly ever whole to begin with.
There's nothing preventing anyone from leaving the city, just the usual checkpoints, the tolls to be paid, just a stricter code of what's allowed to pass through, a more thorough investigation, background checks, a few more bits of red tape to pass through. Cars line the bridges leading out of the city, moving forward. Just, slowly.
*
It's of my opinion that Captain America should go on unabated. Before I go on, I would like you to consider the fact that if I am wrong, the danger he poses virtually nil. He is a formidable physical threat, but we, of course, have much stronger at our disposal.
I don't think I need to remind you that Captain America's true worth -- and threat that he poses -- came from his ability to rally the troops. He could turn an aimless mob into a concentrated effort, to give them a purpose, to become more than just one man.
That, obviously, will not be an option. He'll be effectively disabled.
But having his presence on the streets as he eventually caves to our authority will be heartening to the public. He should be easy to contain if he should put up too much of a fight; it would be a shame to lose such an icon, and again, my advice would be to avoid that as long as possible.
*
0-0000000000 says:
do NOT leave nyc
Steve manages to send off, Where is Peter? Who else is in danger? It takes nearly twelve hours for do NOT leave ny lay low stev to come.
*
The Helicarrier has been parked, inactive, in the harbor for the past week.
A large desk dropped conspicuously in the main entrance, and a woman with a pleasantly low voice greets Steve, with a pleasantly dimpled smile. "How can I help you today?"
The sight's enough for Steve to pause, to stare, before continuing on his way, ignoring her completely.
"Excuse me, sir!" she's out of the desk and following on ridiculous heels, wobbling on the catwalk flooring. "Sir, if you tell me what you're looking for--"
She trails him the entire way, protesting and generally giving off the air of a small dog. The halls are jarringly empty, and silent, and her clamoring and yipping echoes in the cramped space.
Agent Carter's bunk is empty, just as her residence had been. It's always been sparse, but now the spare clothes are gone, along with the calendar, along with the photo, along with her stack of hair ties, and Steve sees red.
"Where is she?"
"Personal information on SHIELD employees is classified," he's informed, primly, the speaker obviously unaware how close to the edge Steve is teetering. He steps forward, fast, and the -- what, receptionist? Backs into the wall, eyes going wide. She's small, barely reaches his chest and Steve takes advantage of height that's imposing to most men.
"Where is Sharon Carter?"
She's shaking, "Sir, all agents that refused to comply with new SHIELD mandates were let go."
"Let go," Steve repeats.
"Like -- they were fired, sir," she says. She's paling with fear, can't be older than twenty. "I c-could take a message?"
*
0-0000000000 says:
luke yellow j wasp ms marvel falcon wint.soldier ironfist spidwoman lindy daredevil oct osborn she/hulk luke punisher firest won.man echo nov
*
Whatever ran the Avengers' emergency communications is down. The X-Men's emergency beacon isn't responding to their hails, and the Fantastic Four have been out of commission for weeks. The landlines have finally gone out, the cable connects and dial up, New York is in a networking black out, and Steve can't find Sam, or Carol or Jan or Hank, or Bucky, or Jessica, or anyone else on the obviously unfinished list.
Baxter Building is on lock down, and along with the emptied Stark Tower, the pair makes a record setting lawn ornament for New York City.
People are scared, and people whisper frantic questions when he passes, as though noting the abrupt changes in normal tones is somehow forbidden. He has no answers. There's no source of it, the changes seem to've instated themselves virtually overnight, and when he speaks to the officers and their superiors -- the mayor's office has been empty from start -- he gets the same confused, questioning stares.
Sentry's Watchtower is gone.
*
0-0000000000 says:
RUN
*
Steve leaves, not the city itself, but he thinks enough of Tony -- for he's become so sure that it's Tony, undercover or in stealth, stowed away and over hearing details, sending the little information he has when he's got the chance, that he's not willing to consider any other option -- to follow his warning immediately, taking nothing but his shield.
He's not fast enough.
*
He wakes in the infirmary of the Helicarrier, too drugged to do anything more than listen when he's told of the tracking device in his spine, and how it is for his safety, and the public at large -- and then he is freed back in his studio, good as new, back only slightly tender.
The resistance had been making pathetic little ground, and Steve will not hinder them further by giving away their location to the enemy, keeping his distance until he can figure out how to block or remove or something, if only --
*
0-0000000000 says:
track dvice has trigger will kill messy DO NOT ALTER/LEAVE NYC
*
Thwiiip
Thwip, thwip
Thwip
He's been following the familiar sound for three blocks, catching only flashes of a small, nimble figure sail through the air. The bodysuit is different, all black, no webbing details. The eye holes are less expressive, simple cuts to be seen through, and there's no logo. Steve waits for the figure to swing down low on a turn, then dives.
He ignores the high pitched scream, controlling their roll effortlessly, landing on top, fist and shield raised in the air.
"Who are you?" he demands.
"Sorry, sir," the voice is high, and the body is vaguely lithe, it could be a young boy or small woman, neither one of those is Peter Parker. "Lieutenant Wilke, sir. Did I do something wrong?"
"Where did you get this?" Steve asks, jerking the wrist up.
The eyes behind the mask widen. "It's-- it's just part of my assignment, sir, I didn't steal them, they're in our official artillery--"
"Who do you work for?" Steve demands, because it can't be the obvious, and it's not, and Steve wants it so bad, needs it to be anything but that -- he does a good enough, loud enough, job at kidding himself that the kid's response is almost blocked out.
"Well -- you, sir. I'm in the National Guard."
*
Spider-mans are the most popular model, although Steve does see Ms Marvels, a few Human Torches, soldiers dosed with Pym Particles.
It's not a fight to be won with manpower, but Steve manages to find reasons to hit things anyway.
They are well trained, the 4-A heroes. They're not particularly ill intentioned, and seem half a beat away from asking for Steve's autograph, even as he sends them slamming into the sides of buildings.
They are kids. They're soldiers, they're a government sanctioned superhuman army. It is the end of the world, and the public slowly assimilates. The public trickles out into the street once more. Businesses are reopened, cashiers and taxies drivers and venders start making their living once more, making do.
It's not like this everywhere -- but the densest population of superheroes has always been in New York. Steve's never thought of it as a weakness before, but all it takes it one firm, hard blow to knock it out, and beating the children sent to enforce it does nothing.
*
As it turns out, Bucky is alive.
Sans a robotic arm, sans what little life in his eyes that being used as a human gun had left him -- alive as you can call that.
He speaks in a slow, almost mellow voice, won't go into detail, sharing only the details he thinks Steve should know.
"It's called Project Wide Awake."
It had been on the back burner, a last resort plan, a just in case, and the fear installed at SHRA being strong-armed out of existence, combined with the distracting and taxing invasion had paved the way for a handful of people with the right sort of power and the right influence whispering in the right ears.
"There's four stages, it's already past three."
There's no ground to be gained by staying in this city, where streets and alleys swallow heroes whole, in broad daylight, replacing them with government approved doubles, and triples. The battle is happening elsewhere.
"I'm heading to Washington," Bucky says. "I think you should come with me."
Bucky doesn't so much as blink when Steve tells him of the device in his spine, the messages and warnings. Just nods, slow and careful, then stands, and leaves.
*
Three months ago, they were celebrating the destruction of the Skrull mothership, and technically, very little has changed since. Precautions that were always in place have simply been moved forward. Citizens are allowed to go when and as they please, as always, as long as they keep no secrets, and have good reason for it, as long as they check in, as long as they're safe, this is for their own good.
The crime rate has plummeted.
*
0-0000000000 says:
disabled device. not much time. friends here need help.
Steve is in the middle of asking for the love of god where, when a second one comes, sorry hrts. need help.please come. It's followed by a Vermont zip code and name of a research facility. The trip takes Steve two hours.
*
It's a perfect cube of a building, dropped, sudden and awkward in the middle of a forest. He hears the explosions before its imposing, white edges begin looming over the trees.
The ground shakes under the force of the battle; it's one of the prettiest sight Steve's seen in what feels like forever, the scope of it coming together piece by piece as he approaches, pushing his stolen vehicle to breakneck speeds. Bucky is there, as is Sam and Clint, as is Sharon with possibly the entirety of SHIELD, as is a herd of young men and women in camouflage. They're pounding down on a tide of bodies in riot gear, surrounding the ominous building.
There's nothing as eloquent as greetings, the best they manage is nods, a fast touch as Steve joins the fray. He doesn't need an order when he sees the hole in their defense; he just dives, cracks, slams, punches his way through.
*
The worst crimes, Steve knows, come from selfishness more than evil. Laziness and fear before maliciousness, and he can't quite believe that this is the result anyone in particular wanted. It's compounded from powers that be taking too much, thinking too little, and caring even less.
In the third subbasement of the building, masked by the same tech that hides Steve's own home, he hits pay dirt. Eerily bright, eerily silent, small, sparsely furnished rooms line a hallway, each behind a solid glass wall. Steve finds Rhino first.
Strapped to the wall, thick, rusty looking metal wrapped up to his elbows, down to his knees, head hanging forward limply. In that permanently affixed costume he looks ridiculous, a joke more than a man, and Steve thinks back to their last encounter, and feels, for the first time since this started, a sickening wave of guilt.
Outrage and frustration seem so much easier in comparison.
*
In street clothes, tired, scared and angry, Peter Parker's curled on the center of the bed in his sterilized cage. It looks more like an especially guarded hospital room than prison.
The young man nearly cries at the sight of Steve, jumping off the bed, mouth working. The glass is sound proofed, but the meaning is obvious enough. He breathes heavily on the glass, writing the code for his keypad in the condensation.
But for the bruises, swollen eye, and torn, stitched skin visible just under his shirt collar, Pete looks perfectly normal.
*
Carol is unconscious, and Peter tells him about a series of escape attempts of varying levels of success, and all of her recaptures, and increasing levels of sedatives.
"Yeah Tony's here," Peter nods. "But I haven't seen him in a while. They keep him somewhere separate."
There's a deep, threatening rumble that reminds him of the war outside. Peter, a dark sort of gleam in his eye, hands Carol off to Steve to join the fight. He finds the same warped look in nearly everyone of the heroes and sometimes villains he pulls from the cages, save the ones that look too bent and broken to be anything but grateful or near hysterics or utterly blank.
Sentry's three floors below the rest, not in a cage, he seems to just be floating, limp, above a circular stand, and the control panel placed in front of him is of no help. Steve gives it three good tries, then moves on, figuring Reed or Hank or Tony will have more success.
One by one the freed heroes join the fight, and Steve does not find Tony.
*
Are you here, Tony?
0-0000000000 says:
im here
Where, I can't find you
0-0000000000 says:
here
0-0000000000 says:
dark
*
The building hadn't looked small from outside, but it's an iceberg, the levels keep coming, one after the other, unending.
A thorough search is difficult, adrenaline and worry urging him faster, sloppier. Tony is obviously slipping, and each level that comes up empty feels like another seal on his fate, sentenced by Steve not moving fast enough, nimble enough.
*
Tony is in a cage. It's dark, not damp, but cold. Curled like Peter had been, but on the ground; there's nothing as extravagant as a bed in his prison.
Setting Carol's limp body aside outside of the cage, the skin under Steve's fingers is worryingly cool.
Tony jerks wildly at the touch, sitting up, sliding backward. "No," he says.
There's only a moment of confusion -- it's not near dark enough for Tony's eyes not to've adjusted, especially if he's been down there longer than -- Steve's jaw tightens as it hits him; Tony's eyes move back and forth jerkily, aimlessly. Unseeing.
"It's Steve, Tony," he says, leaning forward to grip the man again, and this time, accompanied by the familiar voice, it's allowed. "I've got you."
*
Steve would like to carry the other man. It'd certainly be faster than the limping, hesitating pace Tony sets, pained and disoriented, but there's Carol. So Tony clings to Steve's elbow as they move, eyes closed, face pressed into his shoulder from behind.
"We need," he breathes sharply, grimacing. "to get to Bob."
It's a relief to hear, Steve hadn't expected Tony to be up to it.
The stairs are a torture. Tony makes it up the first two flights without a noise of complaint, breaks down at the third. Steve can carry the weight, it's just awkward, a full grown adult on each arm.
*
He'd tried to escape too many times, he'd looked too close at too much. He was too much of a risk to have floating around unharmed, knew too much to be able bodied, even behind bars. They'd done it with surgical tools rather than blunt instruments, two snips. Easy.
Steve leads Tony to the control panel in front of Sentry, watches deft fingers slide over the keys, eyes closed tight in concentration.
"Extremis is out of commission?" Steve asks, really wishing he didn't have to ask just then, but it's critical information.
"I was able to save some essential connections," Tony says. "But it's painful. Obviously."
"What's more essential than healing yourself?" Steve demands, then winces at how it sounds.
"Monitoring conference calls," Tony says. "Contacting you." Tony grimaces, fingers pausing. "They -- it's totally revamped. I can't figure this out." He's flushed miserably, blue eyes open and staring forward blankly.
They can get Reed down here, later, when it's won, surely they've got enough manpower now, Sentry won't be vital for victory. Steve's trying to think of a way to word this when Carol, still sprawled on the ground where Steve had set her, groans.
She sits up on a wobbly arm, eyes Steve with a drugged sort of suspicion. "So you finally made it?"
Tony freezes. "Is that Carol?"
*
Carol grips the power source firmly, and screams, and screams, eyes blanking white, and for a second Steve thinks they've grossly miscalculated, but the familiar aura of a well charged Ms Marvel fills the room soon enough, and the lights flicker once, and Sentry drops to the floor.
The pair blast into the sky, ripping through floor after ceiling after floor like paper in their take off, and Steve can make out the small, dark spec of night sky when they finally make it, joining the fight.
Tony's near collapsed at Steve's side, gripping his shirt tight in attempt to keep upright. "I think," he says, voice shaking with exhaustion. "We'll actually win this one."
Holding Tony's weakened form, helping him along, finally carrying his body up the stairs, Steve thinks this will be a victory he'll actually be able to celebrate.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: So what if Steve's side had won, and Big Brother just started shanking everyone?
Word Count: 4000
Author's Note: omg you guys
onewayfreak is an angelFor a while, they wonder if Tony had been a Skrull, too. It would make such a neat, happy end, and he'd disappeared so suspiciously fast after the battle. But too many details just don't fit, and after the final sweep of the globe turns up Skrull free -- save the handful of publicly known, human alliance sort -- the idea dies out.
Tony Stark is simply in seclusion, as per usual once his life collapses in on itself. Steve's counting the days it takes for the other man to finish licking his wounds, ready to make amends, claiming there's yet another anonymous bodyguard flying the Iron Man suit, and he's beginning to wonder how he ever fell for that to begin with.
The others celebrated, of course, first the abolishment of the Registration Act, and then the overwhelming victory over the following Skrull invasion, but Steve feels no real sense of triumph in either.
There's relief, yes, but it's heavy with the same sort of bitterness that weighed on him after hearing Bucky had died -- but hey, the Nazis hadn't taken over the world!
For as close as the SHRA was to passing, the supporters are surprisingly silent in their loss. Perhaps the invasion had been too much for both sides to take. Perhaps the threat was a reminder of why they used to trust heroes to begin with, but Steve knows that's foolishly optimistic.
Still, status quo is slowly pulled back to its teetering feet, the little resistance it faces usually going hand in hand with spiteful, anti-mutant rhetoric, and Steve finds himself repeatedly crushing the ridiculous urge to defend the SHRA. It hadn't been that bad, honestly, and he looks forward to the day that he and Tony can argue about what could've, should've, might've like rational human beings.
*
Some days, it's hard to believe Senator Brickman puts any effort into his reports beyond trying to offend as many opponents as possible.
His commentary is shameless, laughably so, the bias virtually parodying itself. Even the staunchest supporters of the SHRA would hesitate before calling the invasion 'playground bullying on a global scale,' that mayhem had 'gleefully played out on top of the terrified public,' that super powered beings, uncaring of the body count or outright demolition the city had drawn out the entire affair' or to insinuate that Reed Richards had somehow masterminded the entire thing, 'in an obvious and pathetic play for public sympathy.'
In truth, Brickman does not mean them. They're simply to get a rise out of Tony Stark, who always responds to such commentary, always, regardless of how ridiculous, even if it's a sardonic offer to fact check for the next report Brickman intends for public viewing. Even if Stark's in so-called seclusion, even if he's off world, in other galaxies, Stark is quick to contain and correct such comments, even if they're absurd, and silence would be the only mature response.
But, Tony Stark does not rise to the bait, and Brickman's real response sits, unsaid.
Detractors eventually step forward, responses tainted with varying degrees of amusement and disdain, but by then the silence has stretched long enough that Brickman's eyes have shifted to another, much larger prize. A few casual barbs more, poking, prodding, and it's clear that Stark has abandoned this cause, leaving the mice to play.
*
Get out of NYC
Steve closes his phone on the ominous warning.
It came from 0-0000000000, and Hank can't make heads or tails of it, eventually saying with some confidence that it's a prank, warning Steve to hold his private number a little closer. If he's wrong, they'll find out soon enough. Either way, if there's a threat on the city, Steve's not going to be anywhere but facing it head-on.
*
Reed Richards tries, he really does, but the role Stark had occupied was so specialized. It's not an easy thing to swim with the sharks, with enough cunning and finesse to keep from being bit without becoming one, but Stark had managed as best he could.
Richards flounders. He can see what's happening, knows what they're trying, but his rebuttals are too harsh, too blunt, pages and pages on end in a dry, unpleasant detail. Bogged down so heavily it's a hard read for even his supporters.
Sticking to the issue at hand instead of stooping snide insults, triple meanings, creating connections of any sort, his reports and calculations are reduced to white noise, and he flings endless numbers and logistics over their heads.
Still, he is a weight, he is a name, and Mister Fantastic's presence is enough to hold the tide. But only for a moment.
*
Steve's seen too many cops dead at the hands of mindless, careless temper tantrums to oppose new, updated weaponry. Tony -- before he'd gone insane the first time -- he'd always been willing to send off promising prototypes to the men in blue, always thought it important that the public at large be able to hold their own against a world of rapidly strengthening tech, and therefore rapidly strengthening criminals. Steve can't disagree.
It is uncomfortable, firepower that looks capable of taking down Luke Cage being handed out for daily use to street cops, after all that went down, but it does make a sad sort of sense.
There's no serious talk of renewing the act -- as far as he knows, but Reed and Hank and Tony had been aware of it for years before anything came of it -- and Steve isn't going to push this.
*
Superheroes do go missing, it goes hand in hand with the job.
The Baxter Tower's lights do go out, for months at a time, and the family will return, bruised and battered but fine, with a story of some strange galaxy, some strange monster, gods and hells.
There is no cause for alarm.
*
Verizon goes down first. There's a wailing, public outcry and Steve watches with some amusement at their utter indignation at the inconvenience. The people of the northeast quickly are assured it's a minor technical problem, a simple fix.
The promises end abruptly about an hour later, when the rest of New York's cell phones become useless, flashy paperweights.
Landlines still function, of course, and Steve would like to laugh at Jan's shaking head and muttered curses at such a hassle, but well honed instincts prickle at his shoulders, something Very Bad coming. Steve steels himself for it, and thinks wistfully that now would be a particularly good time for Tony to show his face again, because even as they're saying it's down, there's no fixing it, Tony had always been able to prove them wrong with a flick and tweak.
*
0-0000000000 says:
get Pete out nyc
That's a bit more than a prank, and Steve stiffens the moment he reads it, and before he can investigate, wonder at how this message managed to have service when the rest of the city is in a black out, a minivan filled with screaming kids is thrown through his living room.
Steve takes the raging, incoherently stampeding Rhino down after too long of a struggle, too much damage, but luckily no serious injuries.
When the officers arrive, Rhino becomes suddenly capable of human speech, roaring, "Wasn't doin nothin! Mindin my own business!" which is a fairly blatant lie and unhelpful to say the least. Spider-man would no doubt know what his malfunction was, courtesy of that bizarre bond that develops between a hero and his rogue gallery after enough time. But Peter stepped down from Avenging once his aunt passed, and if there's any formal way to get his attention beyond drawing a gigantic message in the sky with fire, Steve doesn't know it.
He waits, not entirely patiently, for the sedatives kick in and drop Rhino, then barrels down the eerily webless city.
Mary Jane and Pete had found a modest townhouse after leaving Stark Tower, and were still in the process of unpacking, the last Steve had seen. He'd waved them well, forced down the cookies Mary Jane had made as thanks for helping unload their heavier belongings.
Steve finds a for rent sign back up in the yard, the rooms silent and empty.
*
Where is Peter? Who is this?
It takes 0-0000000000 three hours to reply, just to the one word response; friend
When he types back, Tony? he gets the now accustomed out of service error.
*
It comes apart pretty fast after that, piece by piece, as if they were hardly ever whole to begin with.
There's nothing preventing anyone from leaving the city, just the usual checkpoints, the tolls to be paid, just a stricter code of what's allowed to pass through, a more thorough investigation, background checks, a few more bits of red tape to pass through. Cars line the bridges leading out of the city, moving forward. Just, slowly.
*
It's of my opinion that Captain America should go on unabated. Before I go on, I would like you to consider the fact that if I am wrong, the danger he poses virtually nil. He is a formidable physical threat, but we, of course, have much stronger at our disposal.
I don't think I need to remind you that Captain America's true worth -- and threat that he poses -- came from his ability to rally the troops. He could turn an aimless mob into a concentrated effort, to give them a purpose, to become more than just one man.
That, obviously, will not be an option. He'll be effectively disabled.
But having his presence on the streets as he eventually caves to our authority will be heartening to the public. He should be easy to contain if he should put up too much of a fight; it would be a shame to lose such an icon, and again, my advice would be to avoid that as long as possible.
*
0-0000000000 says:
do NOT leave nyc
Steve manages to send off, Where is Peter? Who else is in danger? It takes nearly twelve hours for do NOT leave ny lay low stev to come.
*
The Helicarrier has been parked, inactive, in the harbor for the past week.
A large desk dropped conspicuously in the main entrance, and a woman with a pleasantly low voice greets Steve, with a pleasantly dimpled smile. "How can I help you today?"
The sight's enough for Steve to pause, to stare, before continuing on his way, ignoring her completely.
"Excuse me, sir!" she's out of the desk and following on ridiculous heels, wobbling on the catwalk flooring. "Sir, if you tell me what you're looking for--"
She trails him the entire way, protesting and generally giving off the air of a small dog. The halls are jarringly empty, and silent, and her clamoring and yipping echoes in the cramped space.
Agent Carter's bunk is empty, just as her residence had been. It's always been sparse, but now the spare clothes are gone, along with the calendar, along with the photo, along with her stack of hair ties, and Steve sees red.
"Where is she?"
"Personal information on SHIELD employees is classified," he's informed, primly, the speaker obviously unaware how close to the edge Steve is teetering. He steps forward, fast, and the -- what, receptionist? Backs into the wall, eyes going wide. She's small, barely reaches his chest and Steve takes advantage of height that's imposing to most men.
"Where is Sharon Carter?"
She's shaking, "Sir, all agents that refused to comply with new SHIELD mandates were let go."
"Let go," Steve repeats.
"Like -- they were fired, sir," she says. She's paling with fear, can't be older than twenty. "I c-could take a message?"
*
0-0000000000 says:
luke yellow j wasp ms marvel falcon wint.soldier ironfist spidwoman lindy daredevil oct osborn she/hulk luke punisher firest won.man echo nov
*
Whatever ran the Avengers' emergency communications is down. The X-Men's emergency beacon isn't responding to their hails, and the Fantastic Four have been out of commission for weeks. The landlines have finally gone out, the cable connects and dial up, New York is in a networking black out, and Steve can't find Sam, or Carol or Jan or Hank, or Bucky, or Jessica, or anyone else on the obviously unfinished list.
Baxter Building is on lock down, and along with the emptied Stark Tower, the pair makes a record setting lawn ornament for New York City.
People are scared, and people whisper frantic questions when he passes, as though noting the abrupt changes in normal tones is somehow forbidden. He has no answers. There's no source of it, the changes seem to've instated themselves virtually overnight, and when he speaks to the officers and their superiors -- the mayor's office has been empty from start -- he gets the same confused, questioning stares.
Sentry's Watchtower is gone.
*
0-0000000000 says:
RUN
*
Steve leaves, not the city itself, but he thinks enough of Tony -- for he's become so sure that it's Tony, undercover or in stealth, stowed away and over hearing details, sending the little information he has when he's got the chance, that he's not willing to consider any other option -- to follow his warning immediately, taking nothing but his shield.
He's not fast enough.
*
He wakes in the infirmary of the Helicarrier, too drugged to do anything more than listen when he's told of the tracking device in his spine, and how it is for his safety, and the public at large -- and then he is freed back in his studio, good as new, back only slightly tender.
The resistance had been making pathetic little ground, and Steve will not hinder them further by giving away their location to the enemy, keeping his distance until he can figure out how to block or remove or something, if only --
*
0-0000000000 says:
track dvice has trigger will kill messy DO NOT ALTER/LEAVE NYC
*
Thwiiip
Thwip, thwip
Thwip
He's been following the familiar sound for three blocks, catching only flashes of a small, nimble figure sail through the air. The bodysuit is different, all black, no webbing details. The eye holes are less expressive, simple cuts to be seen through, and there's no logo. Steve waits for the figure to swing down low on a turn, then dives.
He ignores the high pitched scream, controlling their roll effortlessly, landing on top, fist and shield raised in the air.
"Who are you?" he demands.
"Sorry, sir," the voice is high, and the body is vaguely lithe, it could be a young boy or small woman, neither one of those is Peter Parker. "Lieutenant Wilke, sir. Did I do something wrong?"
"Where did you get this?" Steve asks, jerking the wrist up.
The eyes behind the mask widen. "It's-- it's just part of my assignment, sir, I didn't steal them, they're in our official artillery--"
"Who do you work for?" Steve demands, because it can't be the obvious, and it's not, and Steve wants it so bad, needs it to be anything but that -- he does a good enough, loud enough, job at kidding himself that the kid's response is almost blocked out.
"Well -- you, sir. I'm in the National Guard."
*
Spider-mans are the most popular model, although Steve does see Ms Marvels, a few Human Torches, soldiers dosed with Pym Particles.
It's not a fight to be won with manpower, but Steve manages to find reasons to hit things anyway.
They are well trained, the 4-A heroes. They're not particularly ill intentioned, and seem half a beat away from asking for Steve's autograph, even as he sends them slamming into the sides of buildings.
They are kids. They're soldiers, they're a government sanctioned superhuman army. It is the end of the world, and the public slowly assimilates. The public trickles out into the street once more. Businesses are reopened, cashiers and taxies drivers and venders start making their living once more, making do.
It's not like this everywhere -- but the densest population of superheroes has always been in New York. Steve's never thought of it as a weakness before, but all it takes it one firm, hard blow to knock it out, and beating the children sent to enforce it does nothing.
*
As it turns out, Bucky is alive.
Sans a robotic arm, sans what little life in his eyes that being used as a human gun had left him -- alive as you can call that.
He speaks in a slow, almost mellow voice, won't go into detail, sharing only the details he thinks Steve should know.
"It's called Project Wide Awake."
It had been on the back burner, a last resort plan, a just in case, and the fear installed at SHRA being strong-armed out of existence, combined with the distracting and taxing invasion had paved the way for a handful of people with the right sort of power and the right influence whispering in the right ears.
"There's four stages, it's already past three."
There's no ground to be gained by staying in this city, where streets and alleys swallow heroes whole, in broad daylight, replacing them with government approved doubles, and triples. The battle is happening elsewhere.
"I'm heading to Washington," Bucky says. "I think you should come with me."
Bucky doesn't so much as blink when Steve tells him of the device in his spine, the messages and warnings. Just nods, slow and careful, then stands, and leaves.
*
Three months ago, they were celebrating the destruction of the Skrull mothership, and technically, very little has changed since. Precautions that were always in place have simply been moved forward. Citizens are allowed to go when and as they please, as always, as long as they keep no secrets, and have good reason for it, as long as they check in, as long as they're safe, this is for their own good.
The crime rate has plummeted.
*
0-0000000000 says:
disabled device. not much time. friends here need help.
Steve is in the middle of asking for the love of god where, when a second one comes, sorry hrts. need help.please come. It's followed by a Vermont zip code and name of a research facility. The trip takes Steve two hours.
*
It's a perfect cube of a building, dropped, sudden and awkward in the middle of a forest. He hears the explosions before its imposing, white edges begin looming over the trees.
The ground shakes under the force of the battle; it's one of the prettiest sight Steve's seen in what feels like forever, the scope of it coming together piece by piece as he approaches, pushing his stolen vehicle to breakneck speeds. Bucky is there, as is Sam and Clint, as is Sharon with possibly the entirety of SHIELD, as is a herd of young men and women in camouflage. They're pounding down on a tide of bodies in riot gear, surrounding the ominous building.
There's nothing as eloquent as greetings, the best they manage is nods, a fast touch as Steve joins the fray. He doesn't need an order when he sees the hole in their defense; he just dives, cracks, slams, punches his way through.
*
The worst crimes, Steve knows, come from selfishness more than evil. Laziness and fear before maliciousness, and he can't quite believe that this is the result anyone in particular wanted. It's compounded from powers that be taking too much, thinking too little, and caring even less.
In the third subbasement of the building, masked by the same tech that hides Steve's own home, he hits pay dirt. Eerily bright, eerily silent, small, sparsely furnished rooms line a hallway, each behind a solid glass wall. Steve finds Rhino first.
Strapped to the wall, thick, rusty looking metal wrapped up to his elbows, down to his knees, head hanging forward limply. In that permanently affixed costume he looks ridiculous, a joke more than a man, and Steve thinks back to their last encounter, and feels, for the first time since this started, a sickening wave of guilt.
Outrage and frustration seem so much easier in comparison.
*
In street clothes, tired, scared and angry, Peter Parker's curled on the center of the bed in his sterilized cage. It looks more like an especially guarded hospital room than prison.
The young man nearly cries at the sight of Steve, jumping off the bed, mouth working. The glass is sound proofed, but the meaning is obvious enough. He breathes heavily on the glass, writing the code for his keypad in the condensation.
But for the bruises, swollen eye, and torn, stitched skin visible just under his shirt collar, Pete looks perfectly normal.
*
Carol is unconscious, and Peter tells him about a series of escape attempts of varying levels of success, and all of her recaptures, and increasing levels of sedatives.
"Yeah Tony's here," Peter nods. "But I haven't seen him in a while. They keep him somewhere separate."
There's a deep, threatening rumble that reminds him of the war outside. Peter, a dark sort of gleam in his eye, hands Carol off to Steve to join the fight. He finds the same warped look in nearly everyone of the heroes and sometimes villains he pulls from the cages, save the ones that look too bent and broken to be anything but grateful or near hysterics or utterly blank.
Sentry's three floors below the rest, not in a cage, he seems to just be floating, limp, above a circular stand, and the control panel placed in front of him is of no help. Steve gives it three good tries, then moves on, figuring Reed or Hank or Tony will have more success.
One by one the freed heroes join the fight, and Steve does not find Tony.
*
Are you here, Tony?
0-0000000000 says:
im here
Where, I can't find you
0-0000000000 says:
here
0-0000000000 says:
dark
*
The building hadn't looked small from outside, but it's an iceberg, the levels keep coming, one after the other, unending.
A thorough search is difficult, adrenaline and worry urging him faster, sloppier. Tony is obviously slipping, and each level that comes up empty feels like another seal on his fate, sentenced by Steve not moving fast enough, nimble enough.
*
Tony is in a cage. It's dark, not damp, but cold. Curled like Peter had been, but on the ground; there's nothing as extravagant as a bed in his prison.
Setting Carol's limp body aside outside of the cage, the skin under Steve's fingers is worryingly cool.
Tony jerks wildly at the touch, sitting up, sliding backward. "No," he says.
There's only a moment of confusion -- it's not near dark enough for Tony's eyes not to've adjusted, especially if he's been down there longer than -- Steve's jaw tightens as it hits him; Tony's eyes move back and forth jerkily, aimlessly. Unseeing.
"It's Steve, Tony," he says, leaning forward to grip the man again, and this time, accompanied by the familiar voice, it's allowed. "I've got you."
*
Steve would like to carry the other man. It'd certainly be faster than the limping, hesitating pace Tony sets, pained and disoriented, but there's Carol. So Tony clings to Steve's elbow as they move, eyes closed, face pressed into his shoulder from behind.
"We need," he breathes sharply, grimacing. "to get to Bob."
It's a relief to hear, Steve hadn't expected Tony to be up to it.
The stairs are a torture. Tony makes it up the first two flights without a noise of complaint, breaks down at the third. Steve can carry the weight, it's just awkward, a full grown adult on each arm.
*
He'd tried to escape too many times, he'd looked too close at too much. He was too much of a risk to have floating around unharmed, knew too much to be able bodied, even behind bars. They'd done it with surgical tools rather than blunt instruments, two snips. Easy.
Steve leads Tony to the control panel in front of Sentry, watches deft fingers slide over the keys, eyes closed tight in concentration.
"Extremis is out of commission?" Steve asks, really wishing he didn't have to ask just then, but it's critical information.
"I was able to save some essential connections," Tony says. "But it's painful. Obviously."
"What's more essential than healing yourself?" Steve demands, then winces at how it sounds.
"Monitoring conference calls," Tony says. "Contacting you." Tony grimaces, fingers pausing. "They -- it's totally revamped. I can't figure this out." He's flushed miserably, blue eyes open and staring forward blankly.
They can get Reed down here, later, when it's won, surely they've got enough manpower now, Sentry won't be vital for victory. Steve's trying to think of a way to word this when Carol, still sprawled on the ground where Steve had set her, groans.
She sits up on a wobbly arm, eyes Steve with a drugged sort of suspicion. "So you finally made it?"
Tony freezes. "Is that Carol?"
*
Carol grips the power source firmly, and screams, and screams, eyes blanking white, and for a second Steve thinks they've grossly miscalculated, but the familiar aura of a well charged Ms Marvel fills the room soon enough, and the lights flicker once, and Sentry drops to the floor.
The pair blast into the sky, ripping through floor after ceiling after floor like paper in their take off, and Steve can make out the small, dark spec of night sky when they finally make it, joining the fight.
Tony's near collapsed at Steve's side, gripping his shirt tight in attempt to keep upright. "I think," he says, voice shaking with exhaustion. "We'll actually win this one."
Holding Tony's weakened form, helping him along, finally carrying his body up the stairs, Steve thinks this will be a victory he'll actually be able to celebrate.