#slightly backdated~

[centcomm-blog]

@worldsgreatestmarksman

There’s no denying the pass of breath between her teeth- pure relief that it’s not someone else showing up unannounced to make her life hell. 

                      “Hey, Barton. Thanks for coming up.”

[centcomm-blog]

insurgency protocol ; one shot.

This isn’t good.

Borderline terrible— hell, it’s almost fucking catastrophic, but there’s a tenacity to Hill that keeps her from throwing in the towel entirely. It’s this competitive tinge to her wiring that’d made her a tenacious team sports participant as a child. Bottom of the ninth, two outs, and your eight-slot batter toeing the chalk lines at the plate. Layman’s terms: they were just about fucked.

But not yet.

She’s got a hand clasping one wrist at the small of her back, feet planted comfortably hip width apart, the standard ‘at ease’ posture that’s been hammered into her existence even if it’s clear by the knot of muscle at the base of her jaw that she’s anything BUT relaxed. Below her, the main room of the base is a strand of agents, her trusted few, operating at a dull hum. At best the place was operating as an armory, a hovel, a HOLE in the goddamned earth that brings to mind the nation’s relentless hunt for terrorists half a world away.

Except this time, THEY’RE the rats being rooted out of hiding.

Manhattan has all but shut down ( in her opinion- the city continues to operate as normal, just under extremely foreign and adverse leadership ), and is currently occupied by the invading force. They’re the renegades now. Maria’s done enough tours abroad to have more than a few adopted insurgency cards up her sleeve. Rapid fire strike and retreat. Blitzkrieg, essentially, but modernized. Become enough of a problem to cause progress to stutter-step because with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s current number and arsenal they can’t be expected to put a full stop to anything. Barnes is in DC operating one of Fury’s old compounds. She figures she’ll give him a few days to get his shit together before she attempts to touch base. In spite of their last encounter, it’s become agonizingly clear that they’ll have to cooperate if they want to have even a SHRED of hope at eliminating this threat.

The bay of computers is a cluster in the center of the room, the flame to which they all inevitably flock, throwing off light that doesn’t quite reach the edges of the cavernous space. Their faces are planes of blue-hued cast off; she feels like she hasn’t seen the actual sun in days. ( She’s right— it’s been four days since their last op, a semi-successful strike in the form of a car bomb at an embassy that they’d believed to be an operating hub for the invaders. )

Maria runs her tongue along the backs of her teeth, over the dull points of her molars. It’s not enough. In the adrenaline-fueled aftermath of each operation they feel as though they might be getting somewhere. It was easy to be optimistic, punch drunk on endorphins like they’d just run a marathon ( or, alternatively, barely escaped with their lives ). And the’d been lucky so far, only a handful of stitches and a sprain between the twelve of them. Hill is clutching whatever wins she can take close to her chest.

This has been good— it gives her something to focus on. She’s always operated better under clear direction, and having a definite POINT to aim herself at has been helpful. Healthy, even. She runs herself hard enough that her hours of sleep each night are dreamless; black expanses of unconsciousness where she doesn’t have to think about Banner’s occupied ‘shell' lunging at her in her kitchen. Doesn’t have to reimagine the subtle shift in his expression that’s so convincingly Bruce, sardonically begging her to let him take her in, assuring her that she doesn’t have to die yet.

She breaks stance, shifts her weight to one leg and runs a hand through her hair, smoothing it on the return sweep. Her hold pattern is incredible- she hasn’t yet broken, because that’s what her type does. They hold. Everything that’s bothering her, all of the encounters they’ve had over the past several days that were just a bit too close for comfort- they’ve been tucked away. Maria Hill has always prided herself on her compartmentalization. She continues to exist on chewy black coffee and whatever MREs they’ve been able to scrounge from the dry pantry. Combat, spy games: this is what she knows. She can hold.

“Ma’am?”

Eyes snap to the man requesting her attention. Fresh out of the academy, tall as a goddamn tree ( he’d gone to college on a basketball scholarship- she can appreciate his affection for competition ), tawny skin with startlingly jewel-like eyes. He’s one of the smarter ones, endeared ( secretly ) to Hill by his ability to talk playoff baseball and his dedication to analytics work. He’d be a better field agent if he wasn’t so striking. People remember a kid like that. Still, he’s as deadly as he is tall and he’s been incredibly valuable to them thus far.

She descends the stairs, recalling her thoughts from their far-reaching traipse and focusing solely on the present moment.

“Selden,” Hill acknowledges, boots light atop the concrete as she draws up next to him. He’s chewing his lip at his workstation and decidedly avoiding her gaze. There’s a headline on the screen that he assumes she’ll read.

FIVE POINTS FOR FREEDOM.

“They’ve taken the Pentagon.” A hand passes over her face, seeking to smooth out the creases worn into her forehead, travels upward toward her hairline. “Fuck,” she breathes out, the word nearly airless. She has to get back to DC, that much is clear. Joining up with Barnes has just been moved to priority one. If change is going to take place, it’ll happen in Washington. Other cities being held hostage will fall into place after they’ve taken back the Capitol.

“Pack it up. Firearms only. Purge the terminals, leave the key under the mat.” She’s already moving away and her agents are standing, spurred into motion by the clip of her words.

                                    “We’re going to Washington."