01. bang, bang
(🕸🧷🎒🤟🏼🕷)
a brooklyn shipyard
ext. night

     GAVIN ADJUSTED THE SCOPE ON his glasses, the shadowy shipyard coming into focus. He was in an awkward spot: belly down on the roof of a shipping container, a maze of rusted metal and abandoned machinery below him. He didn't move, his whole body stock still and just tense. It was almost like there was a floodlight shining right on him—a million little bullet holes piercing his skin.

He knew what it was like to be torn into, but not in a clean way—he'd been ripped.

The darkness that blanketed him had a mind of his own. A few hours into the stakeout, it really started to creep up on him. It wanted him to remember things—everything bad and bloody.

Luckily, Gavin was skilled in the art of forgetting.

A sharp clang came from somewhere to his right. He held his breath in his chest; waiting. Gavin's hand moved to his earpiece, his voice nothing but a strained whisper. "Hill—tell me that was you."

"Sorry," Maria Hill's voice crackled back. "Looks like you've got company. I count two heat signatures. Something's jamming the satellite. Just sit tight, and we can get someone down there." There was a small pause. "If they can keep us in the dark like this, they mean serious business."

     "And whatever they're handling's gotta be heavy duty too," Gavin mused. "We can't wait, though. I'm not letting two months of work go by like that. What's worse is we still don't know who we're dealing with."

     "Which makes them dangerous."

     "Mmhm..." Gavin slid quietly down the side of the container, boots crunching in the dirt.

     "And, you're already goin' after them?" Maria sighed.

     "Yep."

     "Alone?"

"Yep," he repeated, slinking along the metal wall. He reached under his jacket to the small of his back, fingers closing around the grip of his pistol. "Just a little recon—I won't engage." Gavin touched the side of his glasses, switching to infrared. He crept along, holding the pistol up to his cheek. "I'm not getting anything. Are you sure there were two?"

     "Yeah. I just—shit. They were just there. Carver, don't start poking around. Something's not right."

"You're tellin' me," Gavin mumbled, sneaking a glance around a tower of crates. He allowed himself a small smile. "Aw—jeez, you aren't worried about me, are you? That's real sweet."

     "I mean it. Get out of there, seriously—there could be more of them."

     There was a sharp clang, like before, accompanied with low voices. Gavin crouched low to the ground, hand steadying the pistol. He admired Maria's stubbornness—one of her more trademark qualities—but only up until a point. Gavin would and could play the good little soldier, nodding along with a careful, directed obedience—when he wanted to.

"You think it shoulda been you out here, huh?" It wasn't a question—not really.

"...Yes." The other agent was firm. "It should have. But, I'm not doing this with you. Not right now. We'll have another shot—another night."

Gavin bit the inside of his cheek. "No, we won't."

     The silence on the other end of the com was telling. Gavin ventured deeper into the yard, following the sound of scraping and talking; growing louder. He stopped short, crouching behind a pile of sheet metal. The infrared showed two heat signatures. They moved quickly, loading long grey crates into a shipping container.

He switched to night vision. He could see them clearly now, maybe ten yards away: dressed in black with thick soled boots. He tapped the side of his glasses once, zooming in on the crates—unmarked. He mumbled something to himself, digging his heels in the dirt as he tried to get a better angle—a fatal mistake.

"Did you hear that?" One of the men in black nudged the other, hand dropping to the weapon at his side. He peered into the night, eyes doing a careful sweep of the yard.

Gavin froze, wincing.

The other man gave a dismissive sigh, resting his palms on the crate he was handling. "No. You said the same thing an hour ago and it ended up being a rat. You're hearin' things."

"This wasn't no rat. 'Sounded like someone walkin' or something."

Gavin adjusted his grip on his pistol, raising it to be level with his chest. He moved like lighting, stepping out from behind the sheet metal and firing two shots. The men crumbled to the ground.

"Carver?" Maria demanded.

"Yes, ma'am?" Gavin chirped, grinning as he approached the crates.

"What happened to recon only? We need them alive if we're gonna unravel all this."

"Relax," Gavin muttered, kneeling down next to one of the bodies. "I know what we're dealing with—trust me, the less of these freaks around the better."

"Elaborate."

"I'm sending you pictures." Gavin's finger moved to the top of his glasses, capturing a few images of the crates. He turned the body over, examining the wrist. "I could tell by the accents—and the crates. Yep—see that?" He snapped a picture of a small tattoo: a snake in black ink. "I've run into them before. They usually work off the coast of Southern Europe—Africa too. They're middlemen, but dangerous. They're got a bit of an ego, and won't take work from just anybody. Whatever's in these crates is some good shit."

"They're not in our system—neither is that snake branding. You know this all from...what? Some of your past excursions?" Maria tested him.

"Yep. And, ain't you lucky to have me now." Gavin muttered back, prying the top off one of the crates. "...Shit."

"What?"

"Stark tech," Gavin told her, using his phone as a flashlight to examine the crate's contents. "Short-range missiles—Stark stopped manufacturing weapons years ago. I didn't think this stuff was still in circulation. I'm guessing these are old. There's other stuff. I don't know what the hell any of it is, though. You gettin' all this?"

     "Yes. I'm sending the pictures to Analysis. We've got enough to go on—but, it's not like we can ask Stark himself," Maria said dryly. "Just get to the extraction point. Fury'll want a debriefing."

     Gavin covered the crate, stepping over the body and cutting quickly across the yard. "Sorry—rain check. I've got plans tonight."

     Maria laughed at that. "Mmhm. Getting drunk alone and watching football highlights doesn't count."

     "I'll have you know I have a date—with my Overarching Assignment. We're getting Thai for dinner. I happen to know a place with an excellent red curry." Gavin was very matter of fact.

     "Oh, yes. Your Special Spider Project. How's that treatin' ya?"

     "I wish you wouldn't call it that."

     "Go get 'er, tiger." Maria's parting jibe rang in his ears. He sighed, trudging along in silence. His cellphone buzzed in his pocket—his other cellphone. He fished it out, bringing it to his ear. "Hey, you alright?"

     "I was just checking in on you." May Parker sounded tired, yet cheerful. "You said your lecture would run a bit late, but it's almost nine. You didn't forget about me, did you?"

     "I couldn't if I tried," Gavin replied smoothly. "And, I swear—these kids and all their questions. They'd keep me here until midnight if I let 'em. Don't worry—I'm picking up dinner on my way over. I'll be there in thirty minutes, alright?"

     "Mmm—don't take too long. You know how I get when I'm hungry. Love you—see you in a bit."

     "Love ya." Gavin hung up, something in his gut tugging at him. He could definitely make it in thirty minutes, but that was if Maria was feeling generous.