Work Text
24/04/20__
16:28
Whitehall
Stephanie Rogers is spending her thirtieth birthday sitting in her office, moodily sipping a coffee, rubbing the aching bullet in her side and trying to tackle the growing pile of paperwork that it caused when her PA comes in, her usual Blackberry outlined neatly in the pocket of her pencil skirt. She's carrying a large stack of papers which she sets down on the desk with a brisk efficiency, ignoring the whimper that Steph just about manages to stifle.Howard Stark strides in after her, shooing the girl out with a flick of his lined eyes and sitting down as soon as the door closes.Steph does not speak, merely nods in acknowledgement. The appearance of Stark is the last thing she wants right now: his presence will not help to get rid of the headache pounding behind her eyes, and besides, she's hated him since what now seems to be the beginning of time.If he's come to give her his congratulations and, just like every year, leave his god-damn personal number on her desk - he's old enough to be her father, for Goodness' sake - she isn't sure whether she'll be able to contain herself and not throttle him. Or whack him the incredibly heavy shield-boomerang-weapon under her desk that's disguised as an antique coat of arms.Instead, she raises her eyes and stares defiantly into his cold grey ones, daring him to say something.He doesn't. The only sound is the whisper of the paper as he reaches over to select a file from the side of her desk, TOP SECRET stamped in red on top - so far the only visible information - and slides it over to her, expression grim, but eyes glinting with something that makes her skin crawl - she suddenly remebers when those eyes used to be bright, alive and warm, but now...She shakes off the feeling and flips the folder open, trying her best not to purse her lips as she leans back into the chair, tucking her legs in, a subconscious attempt to distance herself from the man across from her.NOS POPULI stretches across the topWe the people, she thinks idly, could either be a symbol of education or someone trying to be fancy. Could also be a cheap bluff, but if the MI5 is concerned...Rebel organisation. Allegedly have plans to take down and/or reform current government, possible result anarchy -
Boring.
"Why are you so concerned?" Steph states coldly, dropping the sheaf of papers onto the table, "I'm pretty sure they won't succeed, with or without our intervention."Stark's eyes glint, and Steph suppresses a shudder."Read on, Miss Rogers."She resists the urge to roll her eyes, despite the coldness creeping over her.
Acknowledged to have a huge network, and will almost certainly have the support of the general public. Agents have confirmed that the organisation will have the support of other similar groups, such as the french Yellow Jackets. Some governments are taking an interest in the organisation. It may be bribed into taking a different stance and handing seized control over to a foreign state.
Right.
So basically, you're dizzy on power and you're terrified of someone else taking over, that the 'cattle' you herd actually have brains?
The rest of the page is blank, but Steph knows that the other sheets contain pictures and names."That is all the information we have." Stark says smoothly, "I would advise you, however, to take a good look at some of the photographs on the next page."The grainy CCTV images take a moment to settle in. She squints at them, ignoring the stab of pain in her side, and-Recognition slaps her in the face, knocking the breath out of her lungs and settling like a boulder in the pit of her stomach, pushing her heart up into her throat.
It can't be.
No.
It can't.
But the sharp, angled face, the lithe figure, the razor-edged eyes, are all unmistakable.
She's dead. I saw her. Dead. In a coffin.
"That's..." she swallows, fighting to maintain a poker face and failing, judging by Stark's smug smirk, "That's the Black Widow."The man across from her looks faintly amused now.
Bastard.
"Not all," he chimes, smirk exchanged for a beautific smile that doesn't reach his eyes, let alone his moustache, "Read on."
Yeah, I got that, thanks.
Still reeling from the discovery that Natasha fucking Romanov is still alive - not much of a surprise, in all honesty, but nonetheless a severe shock - Steph flips the page."...Hawkeye?"Hair sticking out in all directions, muscled arms and calculating eyes. No one else.A nod, and the cold smile turns grotesque with sadistic glee.She continues flipping through, unable to breathe as more and more dead people rise out of their graves in front of her eyes.Black Widow. Hawkeye.And then there are the women who, over the past two years, were found dead. The newspapers all screamed about it, and then forgot.Brooke Banner, scientist.Eddie Brock, journalist.The two Norwegian sisters, daughters of the country's Prime Minister, named after the Old Norse gods - hard to forget them and the fuss kicked up after they disappeared.Pepper Potts, famous CEO of an art company.The one and only Colonel Rhodes, missing in action.And a last photohraph, with a face she doesn't know, but there's something in it that she recognises.She frowns at the paper, scrutinising it.It's a photograph of a young woman on a bike somewhere in the City, a three-piece clinging to her frame in ways that Steph's only seen on magazine covers. That suit is formal, but somehow the definition of sex appeal at the same time. A mass of black curls falls elegantly but messily around the sharply defined shoulders, outlining a strong jaw and a defiant, stubborn face, but it's somehow gentle with a clandestine emotion. And weirdly, unpleasantly familiar, but somehow managing to send a shiver of something down Steph's spine despite the alarm bells clanging in her head.Basically, it's a picture of an oxymoron incarnate."That's my daughter," Stark sniffs from across the desk, and oh - the penny drops, "It seems like wasting her life as a teacher of engineering and physics in some public school wasn't enough for her. With an IQ as high as hers, she should be doing great things, not teaching morons how to blow things up."Steph bites her tongue to stave off the sharp retort and her disgust at hearing the whining bitterness in Stark's speech. He used to be a genius, then there was some family scandal and he turned sour.He carries on."We've being hearing reports of this "Iron Woman" and we suspect it might be Antonia here," he taps the photograph pensively, "And we're sending you to investigate."Steph blinks. Rage bubbles up, and she doesn't bother to hold it in."Who's we?" she bites out, grimly satisfied at the brief flicker of shock on Stark's face, "And how am I supposed to deal with this? What am I supposed to do? Why me?"Her hand is hovering dangerously close to the shield under her desk as Howard sighs, and shoves a new file in her direction
17:36
Okay, sailing this boat with massive hole in the side across a massive, stormy ocean with only contact lense from a Sylvanian baby rabbit to scoop out the water while simultaneously being on fire is only slightly better now that Harriet Hart is staring blankly at her from the armchair. Harry's eyes are completely devoid of anything other than a weird mix of fear and confusion behind those clunky tech-glasses (or whatever they are) that she somehow manages to pull off extremely well (Steph's not jealous. Well, maybe a bit) as she tries and obviously fails to process all the information that she's just received via a passionate rant from Steph. The silence is also slightly terrifying, because one of the best agents of probably the world has just been confused into stunned silence. When said agent finally opens her mouth, eyes still staring into empty space as if it will give her all the answers, her first question is:"Do you think the english department would be fine with Mr. Pickles?" she says, her voice cracking, "And do you think I should shoot a certain someone in the face?"And then a short pause, before a simple, eloquent statement that pretty much sums everything up in one word."Fuck.""Sounds about right," Steph starts mock-cheerfully, "We're going to be lying to two former spies-"Harry makes a strangled choking sound from her seat before starting to her feet and turning quietly frenzied eyes on Steph."Merlin has got to have a bottle of scotch in her possession," she says, swaying as she reaches for the magic all-purpose umbrella that's leaning against the wall, "And in the unlikely event that she doesn't, there must be a pub selling lots of fine Guiness, or in fact anything else with an alcohol content higher than twenty percent, somewhere in the vicinity." her gaze is suddenly sharp as it flicks to the fine Whitehall residencies behind the window, "Or maybe not. Coming?"She's long out of the door before Steph can even begin to shake her head.