December posting 3: An Accumulation of Anguish, HL/MCU
Yup, yet another unfinished story. This one, I think I know how it ends. And yes, it will almost certainly be finished; hopefully *before* next year's Spook_Me! That said, feel free to comment, ask questions, speculate, etc. It's the most likely thing to prod this along!
TL;DR? Have a WIP/Amnesty fic. Enjoy! (At the AO3 here.)
Summary: In Highlander: the Series, Mary Shelley saw a quickening and wrote Frankenstein. In the MCU, part of the super-soldier serium was 'vita-rays' (or as Dr. Banner later tried, gamma rays).
This is a collision of those facts.
An Accumulation of Anguish
Sean was forking layers of cake apart to get the last few almond slices out of the frosting when he saw the dead woman walk by.
Elise Lutejens had been very dead four days ago; a sword though soft tissue and between vertebrae would do that. Now her head was back on her shoulders, those shoulders were shifting easily with the motion of her stride, and she no longer felt immortal. Pre-immortal… well, Sean would need to be closer to detect that.
So he put down his fork and the now-empty coffee cup, glancing up and around as if to decide between walking out into the bright sunlight or staying for one more round of coffee, maybe with cream this time.
She glanced over as he stood up and for a flickering moment, Elise's eyes blazed terror and fury into his - then all recognition of him was simply gone from her eyes, might never have crossed her face. A stranger glanced at Sean out of Elise's eyes, let her gaze trail over the others sitting out on the sidewalk, and then moved along arm in arm with a tall, slim blond woman .
The new woman, Sean classed quickly and without hesitation, as danger on two lovely legs.
Sean left money on the table for his bill, not worried that he was overpaying; the service in this quiet Budapest café had been the equal of his favorite places in Vienna and well worth leaving a tip. Instead of change, he picked up his coat and pulled it on in the space between the café's inner doors and outer. It left him armed now as he sauntered off after a walking corpse.
It also put his smartphone in hand to get a picture or three as the crowds allowed.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A gust of wind blew blond curls around Dasha's face. It gave her a perfect reason to glance at yet another storefront window as she paused to straighten her hair with her free hand.
The redheaded man was still following them.
His suit was Parisian tailoring, probably bespoke, and the overcoat was from an expensive British line. The lines of the coat were odd; he had something concealed down the seams. Interesting. No hat, but it wasn't that cold yet; no gloves, either. His leather dress shoes matched the suit, except that the soles were too thick. Some material that gripped the ground, possibly, because those weren't designed as lifts.
Worst of all, he had alert eyes and a thoughtful, curious face.
He might yet be a problem.
She started walking again, towing 'Grethe' with her. The new asset would soon learn to react more promptly to the will of her seniors; pain was a great motivator. "Who is the redheaded man?" Dasha asked quietly and watched to see how her walking corpse replied.
Grethe hadn't stumbled when Dasha pulled her into motion. She didn't stumble now, either. "What redheaded man?"
"Perhaps you need ten minutes with the taser later to sharpen your eyes," Dasha mused; it took Grethe half a second to remember most people would fear that more. "Behind us on the sidewalk, in the grey coat and navy suit. He's been following us for three blocks. Who is he?"
"I don't… I think I dreamed him," Grethe answered. "I think I knew him."
"In another life?" Dasha asked, dryly amused. "I see. Were you fond of him, in this dream?"
"No." That was sharp and definite; for a moment the asset's face shifted into lines and positions that the muscles and skin looked accustomed to. Cold, dangerous, intelligent enough to be useful; possibly a little mad, which was less useful. Dasha nodded and made a note that the asset would need another dose of the mind-wiping drugs that night.
After the taser.
"What did you dream?"
"He was uncooperative, unpleasant, and meant me harm," the asset answered, relatively concisely for memories of a dream.
"Did he have a name in your dream?" Dasha turned into a hotel's lobby as if they had every right to be there and watched to see if the stranger followed them. If he followed them, it probably hadn't been just a dream.
"Ian. No, Sean."
The second name sounded more certain, but she didn't sound as if the first name had been wrong, either. Less common, perhaps. Maybe this Sean he was a spy after all, then. He hadn't followed them into the hotel, in any case.
Dasha steered them to the lobby bar and ordered two glasses of Riesling. With an excuse to sit, they could watch and see if Sean/Ian followed them in.
They could also see if he was still there when they left again.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Clint answered before the second ring, as usual when he was working. "New problem, huh."
"Something like that," Natasha said lightly, her breathing back under control from the hasty climb. "There's another widow in town."
He said immediately, "I'm on the train already, ETA: eighteen minutes into the city. Where are you? Has she spotted you?"
"I don't think so. She's busy; there's a man following her. Not a spy; not a would-be lover; not a fight about to be picked. I don't know why he's here yet." Natasha pushed farther back into her chosen wall of bricks, still watching the redheaded man on his phone. If he'd just turn a little farther she could see his face. Profiles weren't always the same…. She turned her attention back to the call suddenly. "Sixteen minutes? Why were you already coming, Hawkeye?"
"Weird-ass problem. Coulson says corpses have started vanishing out of the morgues there."
Natasha kept watching for Dasha, or the brunette with her, as well as the redheaded man. She almost felt like she was in the set-up for one of Clint's terrible jokes. Which reminded her: "If this is a 'zombie apocalypse' jokes--"
"Not with another widow in town. And Coulson said he would tase me if I mentioned zombies on this. Unless they really are zombies, that is."
Natasha could almost see his shrug. "What do you think?"
"I think that if that is what's going on, we're not going to be lucky enough to be able to tell the walking dead from the living. Where are you, Nat? I'll meet you there and I'll study your problem while you think about my problem."
She nodded and gave him her location, including the part about "Three stories up, tucked in by a chimney." Across the way, the stranger turned and Natasha finally put that memorable hair with the right face and name. She said softly, "Clint? Do you remember Afghanistan?"
"Which time in Afghanistan?"
"The hike through the caves two years ago." Natasha watched Dr. Burns shift and pull out a smartphone of some kind. He glanced up and around frequently but not regularly. Good. He did know Dasha was dangerous. One of Adam Pierson's friends might even be able to cope with her in time.
Might. Red Room rumor said that Dasha had come closest to besting Peggy Carter the first time they met.
Clint just said, "Oh, yeah. I remember. We've got weird in more than one direction, huh?"
Natasha said lightly, "The man who's following them is a friend of Adam's. I know one of this stranger's professions, but I somehow doubt it has much to do with dealing with Dasha."
Clint took maybe a second to add that. "She will know you if she sees you."
"Our training times overlapped, yes. She'll know some of your styles, too, Clint."
"Me? I don't have any style, Tash, you know that."
She could hear his implicit offer to stay on the phone in case this had raked up old ghosts. It had, but getting him traced and killed would only add to those. "I'll see you when you get here, Clint. Watch out for the redhead on the bench. He's dangerous in at least a few ways."
One of the things she loved about working with Clint was his apparent bluntness and actually subtlety. "Aren't they all? See you soon."
He hung up, too, rather than make her expend the effort.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Sean sat on a bench with a newspaper while he considered his options, feeling the skin on the nape of his neck tighten with adrenaline and hypervigilance. It was an inevitable physiological response, and one that told him volumes about what his subconscious thought of all this, but really, it was something of a waste of energy. He was on a busy street; of course, people would be passing behind him. It was a busy street; of course, cars would be zipping by, darting in and out of lanes. Neither was any more likely to kill him than they had been ten minutes ago.
The blonde controlling Elise might be staying at the hotel, in which case she wouldn't be out again soon. She might be doing a job there, which would be harder to tell. A dead drop would be a quick matter; an assassination, probably longer. Lord knew Elise would have taken a job like that even a week ago, so a woman directing her might too.
Or, Sean considered, they might have turned in to see if he was following her, not just walking in the same direction.
Red hair did have its drawbacks at times. A hat and new coat wouldn't be sufficient, not against this one. She'd also kept him from getting close enough to Elise to detect any quickening. (How Elise could have even a pre-immortal worth of quickening after all the lightning Sean had absorbed… that would be a problem for another day. Right now, he needed data.)
Sean scanned the streets casually, as if he were people-watching while he waited for a friend. Mostly, he wanted to be sure they didn't come out farther down the street and get behind him. Getting away from them would be one problem; the blonde had looked fast. Being killed in public would be a much harder problem to solve.
All things considered… Sean pulled out his iPhone and wrote a quick email to the other man who'd most wanted Elise dead.
Matthew,
Our mutual problem might not be so solved as should be. Yes, I would have said it was a rather final solution, but someone's turned up and I'm having to reconsider. If I end up very dead in Budapest -- and it is a possibility, old friend -- be advised that Elise is travelling with a Mata Hari of the tall, leggy blonde persuasion.
Hopefully, sending you this has thwarted Murphy and his laws. I'll check in with you tomorrow.
That wouldn't make Matthew happy, but the possibility of backup if he was in over his head was reassuring. Not least because Sean could feel someone watching him from behind.
Up would give him a good view, too. He hadn't done any roof running in years, after all, just park running. And if he did lose Elise while looking for her backup… well, Sean could always follow whoever was spying on him.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The brown-haired man jogging up the stairs ahead of him was carrying a battered military duffel as if it was an old companion; that part, Sean believed. The haircut said he'd been out for a while; the fitness level and upright posture said he'd decided not to lose the skills.
Or the reflexes.
He spun, one hand trailing deliberately behind his leg as he turned to face Sean. "Help you with something?"
Sean raised an eyebrow. "Why English?"
"Because my Hungarian sucks," he said bluntly. He shrugged, grinned, and shifted over to a fast, slangy French. "What, you wanted this instead?"
Sean smiled despite himself. "Either is fine. I can also manage German or a passable Italian. Are you all right?"
"Depends." He shrugged easily, more easily than the constantly assessing gaze would have suggested. His shoulders were so loose that Sean upped his assessment of the man's danger levels. "Are you after the redhead or the blonde?"
Sean settled against the stairwell wall, hands carefully out to the sides. His phone was still in the left hand, but that was normal enough these days. "Neither. I'm interested in the brunette traveling with the blonde -- if you mean the tall, leggy, lethal blonde. I haven't seen a redhead this afternoon over twelve or so, other than myself. I'm Dr. Sean Burns. And you?"
"Come up to the roof and we can finish trading this information," the man finally said, slipping to one side and motioning with a hand. "After you, Doctor."
Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:
Title from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein: "Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it."
Original post on Dreamwidth | Leave a comment on DW | Read
comments on DW
Given the new LJ 'design' decisions, please comment on DW if you can.
TL;DR? Have a WIP/Amnesty fic. Enjoy! (At the AO3 here.)
Summary: In Highlander: the Series, Mary Shelley saw a quickening and wrote Frankenstein. In the MCU, part of the super-soldier serium was 'vita-rays' (or as Dr. Banner later tried, gamma rays).
This is a collision of those facts.
An Accumulation of Anguish
Sean was forking layers of cake apart to get the last few almond slices out of the frosting when he saw the dead woman walk by.
Elise Lutejens had been very dead four days ago; a sword though soft tissue and between vertebrae would do that. Now her head was back on her shoulders, those shoulders were shifting easily with the motion of her stride, and she no longer felt immortal. Pre-immortal… well, Sean would need to be closer to detect that.
So he put down his fork and the now-empty coffee cup, glancing up and around as if to decide between walking out into the bright sunlight or staying for one more round of coffee, maybe with cream this time.
She glanced over as he stood up and for a flickering moment, Elise's eyes blazed terror and fury into his - then all recognition of him was simply gone from her eyes, might never have crossed her face. A stranger glanced at Sean out of Elise's eyes, let her gaze trail over the others sitting out on the sidewalk, and then moved along arm in arm with a tall, slim blond woman .
The new woman, Sean classed quickly and without hesitation, as danger on two lovely legs.
Sean left money on the table for his bill, not worried that he was overpaying; the service in this quiet Budapest café had been the equal of his favorite places in Vienna and well worth leaving a tip. Instead of change, he picked up his coat and pulled it on in the space between the café's inner doors and outer. It left him armed now as he sauntered off after a walking corpse.
It also put his smartphone in hand to get a picture or three as the crowds allowed.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
A gust of wind blew blond curls around Dasha's face. It gave her a perfect reason to glance at yet another storefront window as she paused to straighten her hair with her free hand.
The redheaded man was still following them.
His suit was Parisian tailoring, probably bespoke, and the overcoat was from an expensive British line. The lines of the coat were odd; he had something concealed down the seams. Interesting. No hat, but it wasn't that cold yet; no gloves, either. His leather dress shoes matched the suit, except that the soles were too thick. Some material that gripped the ground, possibly, because those weren't designed as lifts.
Worst of all, he had alert eyes and a thoughtful, curious face.
He might yet be a problem.
She started walking again, towing 'Grethe' with her. The new asset would soon learn to react more promptly to the will of her seniors; pain was a great motivator. "Who is the redheaded man?" Dasha asked quietly and watched to see how her walking corpse replied.
Grethe hadn't stumbled when Dasha pulled her into motion. She didn't stumble now, either. "What redheaded man?"
"Perhaps you need ten minutes with the taser later to sharpen your eyes," Dasha mused; it took Grethe half a second to remember most people would fear that more. "Behind us on the sidewalk, in the grey coat and navy suit. He's been following us for three blocks. Who is he?"
"I don't… I think I dreamed him," Grethe answered. "I think I knew him."
"In another life?" Dasha asked, dryly amused. "I see. Were you fond of him, in this dream?"
"No." That was sharp and definite; for a moment the asset's face shifted into lines and positions that the muscles and skin looked accustomed to. Cold, dangerous, intelligent enough to be useful; possibly a little mad, which was less useful. Dasha nodded and made a note that the asset would need another dose of the mind-wiping drugs that night.
After the taser.
"What did you dream?"
"He was uncooperative, unpleasant, and meant me harm," the asset answered, relatively concisely for memories of a dream.
"Did he have a name in your dream?" Dasha turned into a hotel's lobby as if they had every right to be there and watched to see if the stranger followed them. If he followed them, it probably hadn't been just a dream.
"Ian. No, Sean."
The second name sounded more certain, but she didn't sound as if the first name had been wrong, either. Less common, perhaps. Maybe this Sean he was a spy after all, then. He hadn't followed them into the hotel, in any case.
Dasha steered them to the lobby bar and ordered two glasses of Riesling. With an excuse to sit, they could watch and see if Sean/Ian followed them in.
They could also see if he was still there when they left again.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Clint answered before the second ring, as usual when he was working. "New problem, huh."
"Something like that," Natasha said lightly, her breathing back under control from the hasty climb. "There's another widow in town."
He said immediately, "I'm on the train already, ETA: eighteen minutes into the city. Where are you? Has she spotted you?"
"I don't think so. She's busy; there's a man following her. Not a spy; not a would-be lover; not a fight about to be picked. I don't know why he's here yet." Natasha pushed farther back into her chosen wall of bricks, still watching the redheaded man on his phone. If he'd just turn a little farther she could see his face. Profiles weren't always the same…. She turned her attention back to the call suddenly. "Sixteen minutes? Why were you already coming, Hawkeye?"
"Weird-ass problem. Coulson says corpses have started vanishing out of the morgues there."
Natasha kept watching for Dasha, or the brunette with her, as well as the redheaded man. She almost felt like she was in the set-up for one of Clint's terrible jokes. Which reminded her: "If this is a 'zombie apocalypse' jokes--"
"Not with another widow in town. And Coulson said he would tase me if I mentioned zombies on this. Unless they really are zombies, that is."
Natasha could almost see his shrug. "What do you think?"
"I think that if that is what's going on, we're not going to be lucky enough to be able to tell the walking dead from the living. Where are you, Nat? I'll meet you there and I'll study your problem while you think about my problem."
She nodded and gave him her location, including the part about "Three stories up, tucked in by a chimney." Across the way, the stranger turned and Natasha finally put that memorable hair with the right face and name. She said softly, "Clint? Do you remember Afghanistan?"
"Which time in Afghanistan?"
"The hike through the caves two years ago." Natasha watched Dr. Burns shift and pull out a smartphone of some kind. He glanced up and around frequently but not regularly. Good. He did know Dasha was dangerous. One of Adam Pierson's friends might even be able to cope with her in time.
Might. Red Room rumor said that Dasha had come closest to besting Peggy Carter the first time they met.
Clint just said, "Oh, yeah. I remember. We've got weird in more than one direction, huh?"
Natasha said lightly, "The man who's following them is a friend of Adam's. I know one of this stranger's professions, but I somehow doubt it has much to do with dealing with Dasha."
Clint took maybe a second to add that. "She will know you if she sees you."
"Our training times overlapped, yes. She'll know some of your styles, too, Clint."
"Me? I don't have any style, Tash, you know that."
She could hear his implicit offer to stay on the phone in case this had raked up old ghosts. It had, but getting him traced and killed would only add to those. "I'll see you when you get here, Clint. Watch out for the redhead on the bench. He's dangerous in at least a few ways."
One of the things she loved about working with Clint was his apparent bluntness and actually subtlety. "Aren't they all? See you soon."
He hung up, too, rather than make her expend the effort.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Sean sat on a bench with a newspaper while he considered his options, feeling the skin on the nape of his neck tighten with adrenaline and hypervigilance. It was an inevitable physiological response, and one that told him volumes about what his subconscious thought of all this, but really, it was something of a waste of energy. He was on a busy street; of course, people would be passing behind him. It was a busy street; of course, cars would be zipping by, darting in and out of lanes. Neither was any more likely to kill him than they had been ten minutes ago.
The blonde controlling Elise might be staying at the hotel, in which case she wouldn't be out again soon. She might be doing a job there, which would be harder to tell. A dead drop would be a quick matter; an assassination, probably longer. Lord knew Elise would have taken a job like that even a week ago, so a woman directing her might too.
Or, Sean considered, they might have turned in to see if he was following her, not just walking in the same direction.
Red hair did have its drawbacks at times. A hat and new coat wouldn't be sufficient, not against this one. She'd also kept him from getting close enough to Elise to detect any quickening. (How Elise could have even a pre-immortal worth of quickening after all the lightning Sean had absorbed… that would be a problem for another day. Right now, he needed data.)
Sean scanned the streets casually, as if he were people-watching while he waited for a friend. Mostly, he wanted to be sure they didn't come out farther down the street and get behind him. Getting away from them would be one problem; the blonde had looked fast. Being killed in public would be a much harder problem to solve.
All things considered… Sean pulled out his iPhone and wrote a quick email to the other man who'd most wanted Elise dead.
Matthew,
Our mutual problem might not be so solved as should be. Yes, I would have said it was a rather final solution, but someone's turned up and I'm having to reconsider. If I end up very dead in Budapest -- and it is a possibility, old friend -- be advised that Elise is travelling with a Mata Hari of the tall, leggy blonde persuasion.
Hopefully, sending you this has thwarted Murphy and his laws. I'll check in with you tomorrow.
That wouldn't make Matthew happy, but the possibility of backup if he was in over his head was reassuring. Not least because Sean could feel someone watching him from behind.
Up would give him a good view, too. He hadn't done any roof running in years, after all, just park running. And if he did lose Elise while looking for her backup… well, Sean could always follow whoever was spying on him.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The brown-haired man jogging up the stairs ahead of him was carrying a battered military duffel as if it was an old companion; that part, Sean believed. The haircut said he'd been out for a while; the fitness level and upright posture said he'd decided not to lose the skills.
Or the reflexes.
He spun, one hand trailing deliberately behind his leg as he turned to face Sean. "Help you with something?"
Sean raised an eyebrow. "Why English?"
"Because my Hungarian sucks," he said bluntly. He shrugged, grinned, and shifted over to a fast, slangy French. "What, you wanted this instead?"
Sean smiled despite himself. "Either is fine. I can also manage German or a passable Italian. Are you all right?"
"Depends." He shrugged easily, more easily than the constantly assessing gaze would have suggested. His shoulders were so loose that Sean upped his assessment of the man's danger levels. "Are you after the redhead or the blonde?"
Sean settled against the stairwell wall, hands carefully out to the sides. His phone was still in the left hand, but that was normal enough these days. "Neither. I'm interested in the brunette traveling with the blonde -- if you mean the tall, leggy, lethal blonde. I haven't seen a redhead this afternoon over twelve or so, other than myself. I'm Dr. Sean Burns. And you?"
"Come up to the roof and we can finish trading this information," the man finally said, slipping to one side and motioning with a hand. "After you, Doctor."
Comments, Commentary, & Miscellanea:
Title from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein: "Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it."
Original post on Dreamwidth | Leave a comment on DW | Read
comments on DW
Given the new LJ 'design' decisions, please comment on DW if you can.