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Jul. 1st, 2007


Morning Status Reports

Scicluna stalked into the room, already slightly irritated with her staff. The morning's reports on her desk were full of nothing useful. And the only good intelligence anyone had dug up was a slight lead on what might be an alien artefact in the British Museum.

Trailing her were Threadgold, and Billy MacCrimmon. Assistant, and personal thorn in her side, respectively. Not that Threadgold was useful for more than fetching coffee--something MacCrimmon might actually be useless for once he was through with his training. She wasn't sure yet, her natural inclination to assess people was slightly clouded by her irritation that he'd been foisted upon her without her leave. Given that his father was rather highly-placed and could be useful, simply killing the boy out of hand wouldn't further her current ambitions. Unless she found a way to make it look like an accident.
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Those damned early morning wake up calls...


Logan arrived back on the Helicarrier summoned by the one-eyed bird by way of a curt message left on his voice mail last night. The same voice mail he'd ignored for the last two weeks. Fury wanted to see him before breakfast, which is why Logan stepped foot off the transport after lunch. The first thing he did was light up a cigar as he stood on the flight deck watching the hustle of the crews as they directed light aircraft on and off the carrier. His leave wasn't supposed to be up for another few days. Being late was his way of protesting the interruption.

The cigar was just because he felt like it.

He didn't linger in the way. Get in, get out, get on with a new mission. It had worked for him just fine the last two decades. Maybe see a few of the younger agents he'd worked with over the years. Look up the contacts. Fury had kept up his end of their bargain.  The least Logan could do was bend a little when he asked him to come in early from leave. A very little.  So he would get some coffee and let himself be seen.  If Fury really wanted to see him, he'd get the chance to call him in.  If not, Logan would pick up his next assignment file and see where it led him.

<i>Open to anyone as an introductory/touch base/say hello post</i>

Jun. 28th, 2007


Operation: 52 Pick-Up

Several hours ago, SHIELD had recieved an encrypted message from one of their moles within Hydra's ranks. Their missing informant, Remy LeBeau was being held and interrogated (read: tortured) by Viper. This was a situation that needed to be fixed prettymuch immediately.

Fury had pulled together a team, briefed them, and sent them on their way in one of SHIELD's stealth aircraft, and they were nearing the coast of the island. Agent Danvers was in the cockpit, as she'd been one of the handful of agents capable of piloting the state-of-the-art craft at top speed while cloaked. Summers, one of the others, was seated in the co-pilot's seat while the rest of the team was strapped in behind them. With any luck, everyone had left with an empty stomach.

"We'll be slowing down very suddenly very soon. I'd recommend holding on," Danvers said to them. "After that, get ready to jump." There was no time to land, after all.

Jun. 26th, 2007


Deck Duty

Monet St. Croix waited on deck, tired and annoyed. She needed another couple of hours of sleep to make a full night's worth of beauty sleep, but clearly, she wasn't getting this anytime soon.

The other women who were supposed to help her hadn't yet arrived.

Monet scowled. She wasn't dressed in her regulation SHIELD uniform. She hated that thing. It was so terribly banal and unoriginal. Instead, she was wearing a pair of dark red designer sweatpants with the words "juicy" stamped on her bottom in stylish white letters, and black and white layered tank tops that cost about ninety-five American dollars each. If she was going to act poor, she might as well dress it too.

She glanced at her watch, noting that it was about two minutes until 0500 hours. Maybe she still had time to buy off someone from the cleaning crew to do her job for her.
Marvels 02


(no subject)

"Tell them my terms and see if they'd care to renegotiate, Jonathan. They need me far more than I need them."

The mercenary known most commonly as Domino snapped her cellphone shut with a sigh. She hated the settling in process. All those nagging little details that were a hassle to deal with. She was in L.A., this time, a nicely appointed condo with a decent view and a monstrous price-tag. She'd probably be leasing it out inside of six months. She never had been good at settling down. Job negotiations were becoming a headache--largely because her representative, she suspected, had his own agenda. One he wanted her to follow. She'd deal with Jonathan Shepard when the time came, but it was definitely time for her to start drumming up a little business on her own.

At some point. When she worked up the motivation.

She'd gotten spoiled. She knew that. After several years of hard work, she'd hit the point in her career where she could pick and choose the jobs she wanted to that. Hell, she could probably retire, given the money she had saved and the convenient ability to 'luck' into very sound investments. She was also, however, getting very very bored, and, if she was honest with herself, a little lonely. Such was the life she'd chosen for her self.

She sighed again and dumped her phone on the coffee table, flopping back on the sofa and staring up at the plain white ceiling.

Definitely in need of some excitement.

((OOC: Establish-y, for the most part, as I think only Nick would have her number.))

Jun. 25th, 2007


(no subject)

Sam Guthrie exited his quarters and started toward the mess, looking straight ahead, and down, a little, and nodding to those he met along the way. Most didn't know him from jack, but he saw, in a few of their eyes that some did. He wasn't exactly the normal recruit, and most SHIELD members weren't former HYDRA agents. And he could hear the whispers as he passed.

But he kept moving, not responding to them, and entered the mess, skirting the group there and heading for the foodline. After gathering a tray of food, he settled at a table away from others. Seemed as if it might be the more intelligent option, right now.

As he dug in, he wondered when he would see his family again. He had just returned from a visit there, after SHIELD had cleared him. It had taken months to dig him out of what HYDRA had done, and he still wondered at it. He felt so odd, having lost a year to that place. It still didn't feel real.

But, here and now, he just wanted to do right, and find a way to pay back SHIELD for what they did for him.

He dug in and ate, thinking.

Jun. 24th, 2007

You&#39;ve got to be kidding me


It just keeps getting worse

It had been a helluva day so far and it wasn't close to being over. He wanted to knock Walters and St. Croix's heads together if it were possible. That was the problem with having superhumans as agents, they were a helluva lot stronger than he was. Either one could break him in half and not break a sweat, but it didn't stop him from yelling at them. What the hell were they thinking? Kids these days.

After the fight he went back to the bridge, but now he was on his way to his office.

He opened the door and took one step inside. The curses carried down the long hall.

He stormed back to the bridge and took a quick look at the surveillance footage from the cameras in the hall outside of his office.

He growled and hit the button for internal comms. "Romanoff and Lee! My office now!"

Jun. 23rd, 2007


The Geek is out of the lab...

Normally, Doug was more than happy to hide in the computer section, ignore the world, and see if he couldn't create something new, solve new problems, or design a new piece of software, be helpful, somehow. He wore suits, or comfortable clothing, and sat in a chair until he collapsed. That was Doug's idea of a good time. Always had been.

Today, however, he was out of the lab, and wearing gym clothing, and... completely out of his mind. Yep.

Apparently, he had to go through further physical training, self defense and combat techniques. He wasn't sure that was a good-- no, strike that, he was very sure this was a bad idea. He was...well, inept wasn't even close to a bad enough word for how bad he was at physical combat. He had said this. Several times. In e-mails. Apparently, they had stopped reading them after the seventh one.

He shook his head as he peered into the Gym, then edged toward some weights. Maybe if he just made an appearance and worked out a little, they would see that as enough? Surely, they didn't really think he was going to improve that much, not after accidentally knee-capping one trainer and nearly decapitating another.

He sighed again and headed for the equipment faster, doing his best not to look up or around, or attract any attention.

Jun. 22nd, 2007


Working Out In The Gym.

Monet St. Croix hated the gym on the Helicarrier. It was so...so common. Everyone used it. She'd even seen some of the cleaning crew use it. That disgusted her.

There was also the fact that most people felt like it was okay to come and say hi to her while she was working out, interuppting her concentration on perfecting her already naturally flawless body. It wasn't. And they just didn't understand that, she thought as she shot, oh, everyone, looks of contempt.

Monet was on the treadmill today, jogging. She was listening to an upbeat, peppy song on a version of the IPod that likely wouldn't be released for another six or eight months. She was in her space and she was content.

Beware anyone who decided to come and interrupt that for her.

Jun. 20th, 2007


(no subject)

Agent Cassidy was one of the agents on the 'Carrier charged with training new recruits. As such, he was also one of the agents who gave the new recruits their first tour of the giant flying aircraft carrier. This was what he was doing today.

"This is where the trainee bunks are," he told the young man SHIELD had recently picked up. A young Hispanic man from LA. He seemed pretty rough around the edges, but Sean trusted Fury's judgment regarding his recruits. If Nick thought the kid would make a good agent, he figured he was right. "They're small, but you'll have it to yourself," he told him. "Lights out is at twenty-two hundred hours, though trips to the bathroom, which is just down the hall there, are certainly permitted. You'll be expected to show up for training at seven, on time and in uniform. After I show ye to your bunk to drop off your belongings, I'll show you where you'll be reportin' to," he said, flipping a sheet over on his clipboard to check which bunk he'd been assigned.

He slid the low metal door open to reveal the room behind it. The small room was large enough to house a bed, a desk and a chest of drawers with just enough room for movement in between. One wall had a shelf which was presently empty but could hold a small collection of books or display some personal items. It was nicer than a jail cell, but admittedly not a lot nicer. There was, at least, privacy and not much noise above the muffled sounds of the 'Carrier's engines.

"This is your room," he told him, as if it weren't obvious.

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