The Quinjet descended through the cloud layer, and the Argo finally came into view.
But... the radar remained blank. If Stark Industries hadn't sent the localized coordinates, they would have thought this was just another empty patch of ocean, just like the previous sweeps they had conducted.
"Over there!"
Maria Hill watched through the cockpit window. A dozen people were on the deck, waving their arms frantically. She frowned. "The Argo and the Poseidon... what the hell actually happened here?"
A few moments later, the Quinjet performed a vertical landing on the deck. The side hatch slid open. Hill stepped out, followed by Natasha Romanoff and a tactical team.
"Notify the NYPD," Hill said to the pilot. "Tell them the survivors have been found."
"Copy that."
"And," Hill added, looking toward Locke and Gwen, "tell Captain Stacy his daughter is safe."
Ever since the mess Nick Fury had caused, SHIELD's operations in New York had been in a state of paralysis. The NYPD was a tight-knit family, and George Stacy was one of its patriarchs. Hill had been looking for a way to mend fences with the department; this bit of news was a perfect olive branch.
"Mr. Broughton." Hill walked toward Locke and offered a small smile. "We meet again."
Locke's expression was neutral. "Why am I not surprised?"
Hill smiled smoothly. "The Poseidon is a federal matter. Theoretically, it falls under the jurisdiction of the Department of Homeland Security."
Locke shook his head. "No, you misunderstood me."
"Oh?"
"I'm not surprised because law enforcement always shows up just as the curtain falls to sweep the stage, don't they?" Locke's tone was dry.
The hero finishes the fight, and the cleaners arrive. Standard procedure. Even SHIELD couldn't escape the trope. Locke had led the survivors through a gauntlet of survival and then secretly soloed a sea monster. He did the heavy lifting; SHIELD arrived for the cleanup.
At least they hadn't shown up during the fight. If they had, they wouldn't have been cleaning—they would have been contributing to the body count.
Hill didn't take Locke's hostility to heart. On paper, and in the eyes of the law, Locke had been mistreated by SHIELD or "DHS" as they were claiming. If he weren't cold toward them, Hill would actually be more suspicious.
Suddenly, Natasha's voice crackled through the comms. She had already reached the corridor where Locke had fought the "acid-men."
"Hill, you won't believe this. I've found the crew... it's bad. Really bad."
Hill's expression tightened as she listened to the report. She looked at Locke, who was wrapping a blanket around Gwen. "Mr. Broughton, do you know what happened to the crew of the Argo?"
"They're dead, presumably," Locke said flatly.
Hill blinked.
Locke gestured to the others. "We stayed on the deck once we realized the interior was dangerous. We saw the monster's tentacles. For safety, we didn't venture down. When we arrived on the Argo, we didn't see a single soul."
"That's right," Gwen added. "We stayed up here."
Dylan pointed to the severed tentacle still twitching under the ropes on the deck. "That thing was cut off the monster. If it wasn't for that beast, we would have refueled the helicopter and been gone hours ago."
"And," Pepper added, "the monster went quiet about half an hour ago. But be careful. We were going to take the lifeboats, but it was too risky."
Hill nodded to Pepper. "We'll be cautious, Ms. Potts. A rescue vessel is on its way."
But it wasn't a boat that arrived next. It was a massive transport aircraft.
Hill looked up at the markings on the plane and froze. 'That's not ours.'
*Rumble!*
The transport plane hovered, and ropes were deployed. A team of armed tactical agents rappelled down. Following them was a man in a sharp suit, tie, and sunglasses. He hopped onto the deck, removed his glasses, and walked toward Hill with a smile.
"Commander Hill. It's been a while."
Gwen, huddled in her blanket, looked at the newcomers. "More Homeland Security?"
Locke shook his head. "CIA."
The group stared. CIA. Spies. The most mysterious agency of them all.
The man in the suit seemed to overhear Locke. He looked at him, a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. "Locke Broughton? Am I right?"
Locke nodded. "You are."
It made sense the CIA knew him. After Fury had tried to drag the CIA into his mess, Locke had counterattacked. Rumor had it the Langley director who had vouched for Fury had been demoted to managing a logistics warehouse.
The man offered Locke a hand. "I'm curious. How did you know I was from Langley?"
Locke looked at the hand, then at the man's face. "Do you want the simple version or the complex one?"
The man shrugged. "Let's go with simple."
Locke smirked. "Intuition."
"Haha!" The man laughed. "A good intuition is vital in this business. And the complex version?"
Locke's gaze was clinical. "Sunglasses, tailored suit, perfect hair, expensive shoes, and the fact that you clearly don't like the 'Homeland Security' people here. Process of elimination: CIA."
The man looked down at his shoes and laughed again. "You impress me, Mr. Broughton. Fine, I am indeed from Langley. Just a minor figure. You can call me Mr. Nobody."
Locke raised an eyebrow. Mr. Nobody. In the CIA, someone calling themselves that was like a top-tier author pretending to be a "failed writer." It was a transparent flex.
"Sorry, Mr. Nobody," Locke said. "I'm not interested in whatever you're selling."
He was seventeen. He had a mission to "Study Hard, Improve Daily." He knew New York wouldn't be as easy as Texas, but he was prepared. His goal remained unchanged: earn points, save money, trade for divinity, and find a nice corner of deep space to retire in.
The only change? Taking Gwen with him.
Soon, a luxury yacht broke through the mist. The survivors were helped off the Argo one by one. Once everyone was aboard, the yacht roared to life, heading for the nearest land. A private jet waiting at a nearby airfield was already prepped for the flight to New York.
Hill and Mr. Nobody stood on the deck of the Argo, watching the yacht vanish into the distance.
"Mr. Nobody," Hill started.
"Commander Hill."
"There's a very thick fog surrounding Locke Broughton. Is Langley interested?"
Mr. Nobody smirked. "What was the name of your former director again? The one who faked his death to escape prison? Have you found him yet, or do you need Langley to do your job for you?"
"Director Fury is dead," Hill said coldly.
"Is he?" Mr. Nobody put his glasses back on and started walking toward the cabin. "Do I look like I believe that, Commander?"
Hill frowned and followed him. "I'm just warning you, Mr. Nobody. Be careful if you touch him. He has thorns."
"Are you worried I'll recruit him before you do?"
"SHIELD never lacks agents."
"True," Mr. Nobody agreed, "but SHIELD lacks elite agents. I like Locke Broughton. Whether I recruit him... I'm still weighing it."
'Lorraine Broughton was a Langley ace,' he thought. 'Her son belongs in the CIA.'
They reached the lower decks. As Mr. Nobody caught the first scent of the interior, he immediately covered his nose. Looking at the slime and the mangled bodies, he muttered, "Jesus... what happened here?"
A CIA tech called out, "Sir, over here. It gets worse."
"This reminds me of a massacre pit I found in Africa," Mr. Nobody remarked to Hill, whose own expression was grim. He stepped carefully into the engine room, which had become a bone-yard. His jaw dropped. "Okay. This is a first for me."
Hill was equally stunned by the thousands of bloody skeletons.
Just then, a SHIELD tech who had been working on the ship's systems spoke into the comms. "Commander, I've recovered the security footage."
Hill went silent.
***
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