The Triskelion. Sixth-floor office area.
Stan sat at his desk, bored out of his mind. He pulled the cap off his pen, put it back on, pulled it off, put it back on, over and over again.
After a month of special training, he had officially joined S.H.I.E.L.D. Today marked his one-week anniversary. He was no longer the powerful DEA Director whose every command was obeyed, but just another ordinary S.H.I.E.L.D. desk jockey.
Stan's daily task was to sit at his desk, review documents from other departments, and file them into the S.H.I.E.L.D. archives. The work required no field assignments and involved no danger. At first, Stan had been quite satisfied.
But after a few days, he realized something was wrong. The security clearance on every file that crossed his desk was pathetically low. How low? He didn't even have clearance to view files that, back at the DEA, he could have casually taken home to read.
Stan immediately understood Fury's true intentions. He'd been brought over from the DEA simply to make him easier to watch. Stan was now like a disgraced imperial concubine, cast out into the Cold Palace. Whether he could ever return to grace was entirely up to the emperor's whim.
Sigh. I fell right into that bastard Fury's trap.
Stan stood up with a sigh of resignation and started to walk away. The colleague in the next cubicle immediately came over, grinning. "Hey, Stansfield! Where are you off to?"
Stan pulled a cigarette from his pack and stuck it in his mouth. "Smoke," He mumbled.
The colleague immediately held out his hand for one. "Perfect, I'm dying for a smoke. Let's go together."
Stan nonchalantly tossed him one and headed straight for the sixth-floor balcony.
What the hell is Fury thinking, sending a moron to watch me? He wondered. Is it a mistake on his part, or is this his way of sending me a warning? Heh. That man is too damn cunning. I can't figure him out.
On the balcony, the two men leaned against the railing, puffing away and making idle chitchat about office gossip.
Suddenly, Stan saw a fully-equipped tactical team emerge from the building, heading for the helipad. Trailing them was Level 6 Agent Sitwell.
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s staff was always busy, but its top-tier tactical team rarely saw combat missions. This was the first time in a week that Stan had seen them deploy.
Sitwell, walking at the back, was speaking quietly with the team leader. Their conversation was brief. They parted ways at the helipad, and Sitwell watched the team board the chopper.
That direction... It's heading for New York! Watching the helicopter disappear into the distance, Stan frowned, a knot of unease tightening in his gut.
Sigh. Level 1 Telepathy is practically useless in an organization full of freaks like S.H.I.E.L.D. Besides messing with the minds of new female recruits, it's got no real application. I wonder when the boss will upgrade me to Level 2.
Stan stubbed out his cigarette and headed back inside, his mind troubled. His shadow quickly put out his own cigarette and followed.
.........
Half an hour later, the helicopter landed on the roof of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s New York field office. Soon after, two nondescript sedans exited the underground garage and headed for the Hudson Valley.
As dusk settled, the two cars reached Hudson River Valley. The team members, now dressed in loud hiking gear and carrying large backpacks and tents, got out. Disguised as campers, they began to make their way toward the farm.
After more than half an hour of navigating the dense, steep woods, the team finally located the farm. The team leader was a handsome, brawny man named Brock Rumlow. He put down his pack, pulled out a pair of high-tech binoculars, and began his reconnaissance. It didn't take long for him to spot the villa, the prison escapees, and the farm's owner milling about the property. The villa matched the schematics Sitwell had provided exactly. Seeing the prison escapees confirmed it: this was Jason's headquarters. He immediately took out his video comms and contacted Sitwell.
.........
The Triskelion, Washington.
Nick Fury was in a meeting with Alexander Pierce, discussing the plan for the missile strike on Jason's residence.
Pierce was a blond, Caucasian man. Though he and Fury belonged to different factions, they were on reasonably good personal terms; Pierce himself had been the one to promote Fury. He had hoped Fury would become a loyal subordinate, but unfortunately, Fury was a wolf that could never be tamed. He was ruthless and cold, but possessed a fiercely independent and rational mind—the type of man who could never be controlled by another. A born leader, but a terrible friend or subordinate.
Standing behind each of them were Coulson and Sitwell, respectively. The space between them divided the four men into two distinct groups.
At that moment, Sitwell's communicator buzzed. He immediately patched the signal to the conference room's main screen.
Rumlow's face appeared. Recognizing who he was speaking to, he immediately began his report. "Secretary Pierce, Director Fury. We've located the villa... and we have eyes on three of the Long Island prison escapees, as well as two civilians who appear to be under duress. I'm confident this is Jason's hideout."
Fury said, "Excellent. You and your men spread out, maintain cover, and keep the farm under close surveillance. Report the instant you have eyes on Jason."
"Yes, sir. I understand." With that, Rumlow cut the feed.
Fury turned, awaiting Pierce's response.
Pierce nodded. "Alright, Nick. I'll trust you one more time. I'm on my way to the White House to speak with the President now. Try not to let me down again."
Fury said, "With my strike team on site, what are you worried about?"
Pierce just looked at him, chuckled, and left.
"Director, then... I'll be going as well," Sitwell said with an embarrassed look before quickly exiting. He didn't know what he'd eaten for lunch, but his stomach had been churning all day. Bathroom! He needed a bathroom!
Pushing open the restroom door, Sitwell hesitated. Fury's office was just down the hall. Having a bout of explosive diarrhea right outside the Director's office seemed... inappropriate. What if he smells it and decides to make my life difficult? After a moment's consideration, Sitwell clutched his stomach and rushed into an elevator.
.........
It was still long before the end of the workday, but Stan had already left his cubicle and was wandering the office floor. He did this partly as a protest against Fury, and partly to see if he could stumble upon any new information. The tac team heading to New York had left him deeply unsettled.
He went for another smoke, then the bathroom, then chatted up people at other cubicles. When he came across an attractive woman, he'd flash his Medal of Honor, pose for a picture with her, and bask in the attention. His antics threw the entire sixth floor into a state of mild chaos.
And through it all, his minder followed him around like a lost puppy. Even the blockhead himself was probably starting to realize he was about to be found out.
Well, if it isn't Sitwell. Stan saw the agent hurry out of the elevator and dash into the restroom. Remembering Sitwell's conversation with Rumlow, an idea flashed in Stan's mind, and he followed him inside.
Stan's shadow hurried to follow, complaining to himself. The bathroom again? What's wrong with this guy's prostate?
So as not to arouse suspicion, Stan didn't enter a stall. Instead, he stood at a urinal, keeping himself in his shadow's line of sight.
As he unbuckled his belt, Stan focused his mind, and an immense psionic energy radiated outwards from him, enveloping all living things within a ten-meter radius—including the women's restroom on the other side of the wall. He had no impure intentions; he directed his mental energy to penetrate Sitwell's mind.
Unfortunately, while Sitwell didn't look like the sharpest tool in the shed, he was still a Level 6 Agent who'd had all the requisite training. Level 1 Telepathy wasn't enough to breach his mental defenses.
Just as Stan lost hope and was about to give up, a wet thwump echoed from the stall. It was followed by a long, relieved groan, which carried a foul stench out from under the door.
Perfect opportunity!
Seizing the moment of Sitwell's extreme mental relaxation, Stan focused his psionic energy into a fine needle and thrust it into the agent's mind with all his might.
"Ngh!" The force of his concentration caused him to piss like a racehorse.
BOOM!
There was a roar in his mind, and then... clarity. He was in!
One minute later, he zipped up his pants and walked out of the restroom, his face a grim mask. In that single minute, he had downloaded Sitwell's entire day's worth of memories without leaving a single trace.
Stan sat back down at his desk, rubbing his aching head. He was utterly horrified.
S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA...
Nick Fury, Alexander Pierce...
"Hawkeye" Clinton Barton, undercover in the Joker Organization...
Brock Rumlow, the Hudson Valley...
The President, the Army, Tomahawk cruise missiles, taking a crap...
As he processed the memories, Stan's entire worldview collapsed.
For the first time he understood how terrifyingly powerful S.H.I.E.L.D. really was. Backing it were the five most powerful nations on the planet. He had never imagined that such a massive organization could be so thoroughly infiltrated by HYDRA moles. He was even more shocked to learn that HYDRA was the remnant of the German Nazis from decades ago.
The information was explosive, enough to keep Stan reeling for some time.
But right now, the most important thing was to contact Jason immediately.
His hideout had been exposed!
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