Simon Riley really hates superheroes.
The jet’s wheels slam onto the tarmac with a violence Ghost appreciates.
Real. Physical. Grounded.
New York smells wrong when the ramp drops, burned circuitry, ozone, smoke that doesn’t belong to anything earthly. Stark Tower cuts into the skyline like a blade, too clean, too untouched compared to the scorched edges of the city around it.
S.H.I.E.L.D. agents swarm before the engines fully die.
Efficient. Quiet. Armed.
That, at least, feels familiar.
They’re escorted through secured hangars, badge checks, retinal scans. Ghost catalogues exits, sniper angles, choke points without thinking. The building is all glass and polished steel, but the security layers are military-grade and then some.
Good.
It means someone here understands the world isn’t made of press conferences.
———————————————————————————
Maria Hill is waiting in a briefing room that’s too white, too bright.
Tablet in hand. Expression carved from stone.
“Task Force 141,” she says, like she’s reading off a checklist. “Glad you made it.”
Price gives a short nod. “Director Hill.”
She taps the wall screen. It lights up with rotating 3D schematics, alien tech fragments, impact zones, heat signatures mapped across boroughs.
“This isn’t a battlefield,” Hill says. “Not yet. We want to keep it that way.”
Soap leans back in his chair. “And we’re here for…?”
“Recon. Recovery. Identification.” Hill swipes again. Photos appear, makeshift labs, burned apartments, something that used to be a warehouse now coated in strange metallic growth. “Black market groups are already moving pieces of Chitauri tech. We need to know who, how, and where it’s going next.”
Gaz whistles low. “Three days. That fast.”
“They don’t care what it is,” Hill says. “Only what it can do.”
Ghost’s eyes lock on one photo.
Ash shapes on pavement.
He looks away first.
Hill continues like she didn’t notice. “You’ll be embedded with S.H.I.E.L.D. field teams, but operational autonomy stays with you.”
Price nods once. “Understood.”
Hill hesitates, then adds, “There’s… one more thing.”
Ghost already hates it.
“You’ll be staying at the Avengers Compound while in theater.”
Soap snorts. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Price’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue.
Ghost says nothing.
But the mask hides the way his teeth grind.
———————————————————————————
The Avengers Compound is worse than he expected.
Too open. Too clean. Too… hopeful.
Security is airtight, but it’s hidden behind glass walls, art installations, landscaping. Like danger is something decorative here.
They’re led inside by automated clearance systems and one very human voice calling down a hallway.
“Hi, you must be 141?”
You step into view with a tablet tucked to your chest, badge clipped to a slightly oversized shirt that belongs in a thrift store, not a superhuman war hub.
You look tired.
Not fragile. Not scared.
Just—
Tired in a way Ghost recognizes.
“I’m, technically, the assistant,” you say. “Reception, scheduling, damage control paperwork, occasionally Stark’s assistant when he forgets how calendars work.”
Soap blinks. “That sounds like six jobs.”
You shrug.
Ghost watches you like you’re a puzzle piece that doesn’t belong here.
You don’t stare at his mask.
You don’t flinch.
Good.
“The Avengers are out,” you continue, already turning and gesturing for them to follow. “Press conference. Damage control statements. The usual.”
Gaz mutters, “Course they are.”
You pretend not to hear.
“Your rooms are this way. Kitchen’s open access. Don’t touch anything labeled ‘prototype’ unless you want Stark yelling at you or Banner apologizing while something explodes.”
Soap grins. “Noted.”
You stop outside a hall of guest quarters and hand over keycards.
“If you need anything, I’m a call away.”
Then you leave before anyone can answer.
———————————————————————————
The door to Ghost’s room shuts with a soft hydraulic hiss.
He checks corners. Vent. Bathroom. Under bed.
Habit.
Then he removes his gloves slowly, flexing fingers that still remember recoil and bone.
———————————————————————————
Ten minutes later, they’re all in Price’s room.
Door locked.
White noise jammer active.
Price stands near the window, arms folded. “Thoughts.”
Soap drops onto the couch. “Hate it.”
Gaz leans against the wall. “Too clean. Makes me nervous.”
Ghost stays standing.
“Alien tech in civilian circulation,” he says flatly. “Means someone’s already weaponized it.”
Price nods once. “Agreed.”
Soap rubs his face. “And we’re living with celebrities.”
“Assets,” Price corrects.
Ghost’s voice is quieter.
“Symbols.”
The room goes still.
Because they all know what he means.
Symbols don’t bleed on operating tables at 0300.
Symbols don’t hold friends together while waiting for evac that’s five minutes too late.
Price finally exhales. “Doesn’t matter what they are. We have a job.”
Ghost nods.
Because he always will.
——————————————————————————
@jupitersmoon167 this is for you bc you get it 🙏 doing this for you bbg
Pt1