Peggy Carter stood a scant few steps ahead of Logan. She took this rare moment of separation to tug at the straps on her gun-belt, and check the fasteners on her canvas pack. All was still in place -- the work was done more out of a fussy fidgeting urge than out of necessity. Dark hair was braided and pinned back from her face, so when she craned her neck and observed the towering spires she didn't have to contend with stray curls impeding her view. Each colossal metal structure looked bewilderingly organic in the way it twisted upwards, almost as though it had been grown instead of built. Cultivated instead of constructed. "This manner of place ought to be documented."
They'd been here a scant day-and-a-half. Or so a pocket-watch assured them, though she doubted even its mechanisms could be trusted in this alien city. Even rudimentary technology seemed to jam up and fail at moments impossible to predict: almost as though a natural force emanating from within the city's heart was doing the jamming. And yet it was their mission to venture further. As it was, she and the man she'd met only once before -- in a far different time and far different place -- were still on the outskirts. Only this hour did they discover this narrow bridge lined with its curious spires.
Spires worth photographing, she still maintained. But the camera had been one the earliest pieces of equipment to go: first jammed by the unknown power at work, and second launched like a makeshift projectile at a sleek-bodied security robot that had come a-calling when they'd dared to spend more than an hour or so with too much distance between them. Bloody well blame Howard for that treat, she thought and cursed and bemoaned. Howard and his idiocy passing for genius. Forcing the genetic passcode onto Logan hadn't been Peggy's first instinct -- indeed, she'd argued against it in the quiet of the SSR office. But Howard hadn't listened.
"Or else I feel as though no one will ever believe us." Peggy fell back a few steps and held out a bare hand. After all, it was time to be in touch again. For their sakes, and for the mission's.
He had followed, though his interest was not in the wonders of their surroundings but instead the dangers they presented. He could smell everything whether it was the oddly sweet rusted steel or the pungent fungus vine that crept up most of the ruins. His companion was hardly exempt from this acute awareness and it was obvious to him that for all her composure, she was no more at ease in this place than he was. There was plenty more that he could hear, which included the ticking of her watch. He'd decided an hour ago that when he paid attention to it, the second hand was moving irregularly. He might have kept sense of time from the sky above, but the sun had been moving so slowly across the sky that he was half convinced a full day should have already passed since they arrived, even though they had yet to see nightfall come.
It was the very reason that prompted him to remove the partially used cigar from his pocket and once more light it up again. Smoking was not as much of a stress relief to him as it was for others, but it worked well enough when it came to strangling his senses. There was too much everything out there and he was tired of smelling it all. This place was wrong and he had long come to regret ever agreeing to the demands of that pencil mustached asshole that had convinced him he was the best choice for protecting the passcode. After his previous mission with Agent Carter, it had become clear that the rough looking northerner was as close to Captain America as any of them were likely to encounter again. But no one would ever argue he was a paragon of virtue. He was capable and strong and his similarities to Steve Rogers began and ended there.
"Personally, I ain't got any plans of talking about this place." He exhaled smoke and grimaced as he stared at her outstretched hand. Of all the complications he'd encountered on missions, this was by far one of the stranger. Howard Stark had justified the physical contact as the only way of keeping the passcode charged, but he'd been tempted more than once to call the bluff and keep moving on his own. Yet that robot had not gone down easily and Logan had nearly lost a hand in the fight. The wound he did take had been deep and one leg of his trousers was soaked in blood, though there was no wound to be found underneath it all. Another encounter like that would make it hard to keep his mutation secret.
Reluctantly he pressed his hand into her and let their fingers entwine, just as they had been instructed. As ever, he could feel the warm pulse in his wrist that indicated the connection was active. Though he glanced briefly at her, he quickly looked away and maneuvered the cigar to the opposite side of his mouth.
"Perhaps you haven't," Peggy replied. "But reports will still need to be written, and it will all sound quite preposterous without any hard evidence."
But she couldn't blame him for not caring. He wasn't the one fated to be tasked with writing a single line of these reports. He was here for another reason: muscle; experience; a choleric presence when stepping into the unknown. His qualities were ones that, in many ways, meshed quite well with her own sanguine enthusiasm for a job well done. Yet it didn't make the restrictions placed upon them any easier. Peggy felt a squirm of guilt in her stomach when she pressed her palm against Logan's. Innocent enough, but Howard had made it sound anything but innocent when he'd described what would be required of them to survive. She'd demanded a biological passcode of her own -- but excuses had been made. Time; resources; suitability. Frustratingly, no one would explain to her what made her so unsuitable to carry the burden of her own safety.
So she entrusted it to Logan's care. Uncomfortably and reluctantly. Peggy was a happier soldier when she looked after herself: too often since the war's end had she been betrayed by affection and camaraderie.
"Must you?" She asked of his cigar. In many ways, she envied him the habit. She could use a means to calm her own nerves. "It stinks."
Logan, who was only literate from a charmed childhood, had no interest in any manner of reports. He could appreciate Peggy for that much at least, because she certainly had proved herself extraordinarily capable of doing all the sorts of things that would leave him frustrated and hopeless. Even so, he'd have been just as content if she'd been left behind. They may have avoided death so far, but the last thing he needed was a woman's death on his conscience. He didn't need anymore names haunting his memory.
He puffed from his cigar a second time, though he did so with the decency to exhale opposite her direction. "Not so bad as this place does." He plucked the cigar from his lips and held it out for her as though it were some generous favor, though he knew she wouldn't want it. "But help yerself, teacup. I ain't above sharing."
She didn't. Didn't want it one bit. And yet -- with her brows arched and her jaw tight -- she pinched the cigar's papery exterior and took care to liberate it from his grip. Although it wasn't a habit or a vice of hers, Peggy was no true stranger to slow drags on acrid cigarettes. Cigars, however, were another beast entire. She had to dredge up memories of Sergeant Dugan just so she might survive the next few seconds without making herself appear foolish.
A muscle twitched in her cheek: the burdensome attempt not to cough. Throat and lungs burned, but she exhaled a clumsy almost-ring of smoke before relinquishing ownership back to him. Why did she do it? Well, she was no shrinking violet. And an aggressive core of her personality needed him to understand she didn't gripe because of some artificial girlish disdain. Peggy Carter was no prude; she merely had her preferences.
"Teacup," she repeated. Cocking her head, she wondered if he was trying to make her uncomfortable. To one-up her with a diminished nickname. Displace her. But instead she maintained her firmish grip upon his hand and did her best to drive the pace as they marched onto the narrow bridge. "I quite like that."
She had become Teacup in his mind before the mission even started, but even a soldier knew there was a place and time for rank and names and other times for nicknames. This one was not extraordinarily clever as she had foremost latched onto his memory as simply being so British. She had done more to distinguish herself since then, but the name stuck. For all that, he could not hide a look of dumbfounded surprise even after he took the cigar back. He could tell she hadn't enjoyed it, but the attempt was admirable. He responded by turning it between his fingers and pressing the lit end against the butt of his weapon. Once it had been put out, he deposited it back into a pocket again.
He grunted an acknowledgement and turned his sights over the edge of the bridge. The chasm below looked like none too friendly a drop. Far below them was what might have once been a river, though it had long ago dried up and left a path of crooked earth. The water might have gone, but it left evidence that it had been a deep river at one time. It seemed unfathomable that all the water could have simply dried up.
"Must be a dam upriver." He raised his free hand to his brow to shield the sun while he surveyed the west. "Or somethin' else. Rivers don't dry up that quick."
"Don't they?" Peggy asked. Not in argument (for although she knew a great deal, very little of it was geology; geography; environmental), but instead in that wry inside-out tone the British were so fond of using when they questioned something. Expressed their curiousity. Half-imperious; half-humbled. Other quarters of her mind still raced, leaving insult and annoyance behind: "I would thought a drought might make quick work of it and yet--"
She tugged him along to the brdige's edge, eager to investigate. Tugged being more a state of aspiration than a certainty -- Peggy was more than aware that he could put his foot down and haul her back into place whenever he so chose. But as of yet, it hadn't happened. "I suppose a mere drought would never have persisted. Water returns, eventually."
Or one would hope. Her thoughts hung upon those ominous words voiced by Logan: or somethin' else. They didn't yet know what ended the biological lives of these people -- only that they left fearsome technology in their wake.
"The drought's long over. We splashed through a few puddles half a mile back."
It was no drought that did this. Though it was hard to see from this height, he couldn't even make out a trickle of a stream that had survived the river's demise. She tugged him along and he obliged her being equally curious and concerned at what this finding might mean. For the past hour, they had been moving south with the explicit hope that the city's interior might offer them more clues than the exterior had. So far, it had been much the same. This was different.
He turned to look at the far end of the bridge. Where the road began again, there was an incline that worked its way down to the river. In better days it might have been meant to be the riverbank, but now it would be a dusty and rough scramble to reach the bottom. "The way's steep, but we can make it down there."
"And it may be a relief to put some distance between ourselves and the old architecture -- especially before nightfall."
Peggy left blank spaces in her sentences. Absences, whereby she hoped he might infer their meanings. The deeper they pushed into the city's heart, the more and more they risked any time spent apart bringing ruination down upon their heads. Night-time made it a more tricksome thing, and she would offer up no complaints if they spent the remainder of the afternoon hours heading deeper into the perhaps-once-fecund riverbed.
"As for steep, well--" she raised their joined hands. Her smirk was wry -- sharp and thorny. "At least I needn't suffer the indignity of asked for your hand when we get there, yes?"
Nightfall might be hours off or even days away, but that did not make her any less right. The city posed its own kinds of danger and even if they refuged inside one of the buildings, it was no guarantee of safety. Logan would much prefer something a little more natural. Not that natural applied much to this world.
He offered her a snort of agreement (such as it was) matched with that twisted grimace that passed for a smile. He squeezed her hand and then directed them to begin walking to the opposite end of the bridge. "I'm startin' to think you're enjoying this."
Carter asked it in her haughty tone: all arch and little leniency. A kind of false concern over his opinion when (it was supposed) she cared very little whether he thought well or ill of her by-times enjoyment. To add fuel to this feeling, she continued on: "It isn't everyday one gets to be the pioneering soul into an ancient civilization -- provided that's even what these people were."
If the SSR had turned into something of an intelligence bureau in its adolescence, then Peggy Carter still embodied a devilish excitement for the unknown -- for a kind of intelligence gathering that wasn't staid and stodgy behind a desk.
"That's not--" Logan immediately gave up on explaining what he had really meant. Instead he groaned, rubbed at the back of his neck, and plodded on. "You know, I didn't figure you for the type. Most stuffed shirts seem to like their desks. An' with you bein' a woman and all..."
The statement did not need conclusion. Logan had already protested about dragging a woman into this kind of situation. She might have proven herself capable against Hydra, but they had the Howling Commandos at their side. It was another matter entirely when it was just the two of them. Even now he persisted in the notion she was in the way and useful only because the passcode required human contact to remain active, regardless of what her insights and talents had brought to the forefront already.
Aha. This old horse and cart. Peggy kept her lip buttoned -- because she didn't feel the need to stomp her feet and make noise over what her perceived value ought to be for a mission such as this one. Nor was it entirely appropriate to retort (however acidly) that her shirt was anything but stuffed. Particularly because she knew that wasn't at all what he'd meant --
"A desk is all well and good," she concluded, "so long as there is worthy work being done at it."
Because Peggy didn't spurn the paperwork, she merely wanted to be involved with it. Signing reports, rather than delivering them. Or depositing coffee mugs in their general vicinity. In a twist of cruel fate, it took losing the Chief and nearly losing Howard before the SSR gave Peggy Carter her dues. Doubtless, Thompson would never have signed off on this mission had it not been for what had happened with Leviathan.
"And the same can be said for the field. I follow the trail of what needs doing, Logan," she said his name with a mild reserve. Gentle, almost. To prove she wasn't arguing. "And then I do it. It's only ever been as simple as that."
And to prove her point, she took the first bold step down their intended steep incline. Still anchored by him, of course.
"What do you mean, my money is not 'correct'?" Effie plucked a handkerchief from her sleeve, wiped down the top of the bar, and then leaned both elbows on it while holding up her Capitol currency.
This was Canada -- rugged, lumberjack-camp-y Canada -- and all the money had loons and Queen Elizabeth on it, not images of President Snow.
Effie didn't really care about this. This seedy establishment was the only open place in the small lumber town where They'd dropped her. She was tired and needed something to eat and drink. If the slovenly woman behind the bar thought she wasn't ready to summon every Peacekeeper within shouting distance to make her see the light, then she had better think again.
She didn't care who else in the bar saw her, either: all dressed to the nines in bright fuchsia and lemon. She liked a spectacle at the best of times, especially when she was in the right. She waved her Capitol 20 in the woman's face.
"You've clearly got no culture in this District, but surely you understand how money works?"
"Look, lady; I only take real cash, eh? Now make yourself scarce before I throw you out on your fine-fettled bee-hind."
Effie bristled...or, more accurately, puffed out a bit like an angry hen. "I always get the most uncouth jobs," she muttered. Then, with a sigh, she set a large diamond ring on the counter. "Will this do?"
The bartender took notice of this, along with half a dozen burly, unsavory types up and down the bar. The chatter in the place subsided as the plaid-shirted woman snatched up the jewelry and tucked it in her pocket.
"I'll start a tab for you."
There. With that taken care of, she could spin around on her stool and take in the local color.
Ugh. Dreadful. She'd have to collect the things the Gamemakers had requested quickly so she could leave all of this plaid and denim far, far behind.
Next to Effie, a hand covered in a thin layer of hair dropped on top of the diamond ring before the bartender could even pick it up. The man behind the counter glared and looked liable to turn red and explode, but the icy glare from the plaid-covered man seemed to discourage any protest. The ring was scooted back in front of Effie and was followed by a few multicolored bills to replace it. It was by no means a lot of money, but it would be enough.
"Two, Mike. One for me, one for her." He did not so much look at the woman in her ridiculous get up, nor did he have any great interest in her. "Don't go shortchanging the tourists."
Logan still had another bottle of beer in front of him, though it was soon to be emptied. He took a long draft from it and deposited the now empty bottle in front of him. Finally he looked at Effie with the look of pure disdain that can only come from a man who had spent the whole of many lifetimes avoiding people like her. "Yer a long way from Oz, darlin'."
Effie had been sent by the Gamemakers to find a moose. She had no idea that it was actually a punishment crafted by President Snow for Katniss's behavior at the 74th Hunger Games. Snow didn't intend for her to come back alive, or, if she should, it would be covered with pine needles and moose-slobber. She'd be a shell of her former self.
"Tourist?" she sniffed, though the rainbow-money was captivating. She slipped the diamond back onto one delicate finger. Think, Effie. This man could help with your mission. He was hairy, not overly tall, and slightly...wait.
There was no answer to that which could suffice. Only the thought that went through the mind of any Canadian who was forced to deal with this particular brand of strangeness. He let out a long sigh and ran a hand over his face. Americans.
Her eyes lit with joy. Oh, finally finally she could take him back and repair the break to the third nail on her left hand! She touched his arm. Oh. Very muscular.
Moose were strong and had such a peculiarly manly scent to them.
"Then I need you," she replied with serious simplicity. "I need you."
Like many men, Logan wasn't above a one night stand with some someone willing. It was even possible that underneath all the makeup and ridiculous clothing, she might have actually been an attractive woman. But Logan could not bring himself to imagine that. Her gesture was unappreciated, but he showed no response to it. His brow wrinkled and he accepted his next round.
"Great. Needed." He drank deeply. "There's plenty more to choose from here, darlin'. Set yer sights elsewhere."
She was a sex symbol back home. That didn't matter at all in Canada, of course, especially in this part of Canada. "No, you don't understand. I can't fail at this."
At that moment, the bartender showed up with her beer. She took it and drank it eagerly, hardly noticing the flavor. Effie? Not a beer-drinker, but she was parched and hungry, too. Perhaps when she was feeling less needy she'd plague Logan to get her a froufrou girly drink.
"Lady, you're already failing." He turned to look at her yet again, wondering if perhaps she had already been drunk before he decided to help booze her up. It was a decision he knew he was going to regret.
He stood up. "Enjoy the drink. I got places to be."
The other bar on the other side of this small backwater town. The other bar was smaller and dirtier and probably already closed. But it lacked her and that seemed a vast improvement to this place.
"I can be in those places. I'm so effish...effish...
I'm good at being in places." She stood up, bringing her beer with her. No one would probably care about something like that in this neck of the woods. "Let me tell you how grand it will be on the way. And you can tell ME about mooses."
"Moose." His correction was suddenly very tired and resigned. "You don't call 'em mooses. And I ain't inviting you to tag along."
Driving up deep into the white north had been his way to clear his mind and spend time away from the X-Men. It was his way of reconnecting with what made him who he was. Having a woman who represented everything he was not looking for was a fine way to avoid making any progress whatsoever.
"Of course you're not! I'm the socialite, of the two of us! Obviously!" She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion and laughed too loudly. His shoulder was handy to lean against as she adjusted her shoe. The heel had come loose, but that didn't matter now. Nothing did! She was so close to being done with all of this and back in her sumptuous suite at the Capitol, basking in the glow of being back in the Administration's good graces. It was either the Glow or the Gibbet. Effie had always preferred the Glow, of course.
"I'm already learning so much! Where are we going, again?"
He found that he did not like his shoulder being taken for the purposes of leaning or adjusting footwear, especially as he had not once offered it to him. As pushy women went, he'd met the queen of the bunch. Short of doing something downright un-gentlemanly, he realized he was not going to be getting rid of her easily.
His frustrated answer of We're not going anywhere was abandoned before it could be stated. Already he could tell that wouldn't work. "You tell me. There some fashion show nearby I can drop you at? A nuthouse, maybe?"
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munebox2015-05-16 10:12 pm
❝til morning comes let's tessellate❞
Peggy Carter stood a scant few steps ahead of Logan. She took this rare moment of separation to tug at the straps on her gun-belt, and check the fasteners on her canvas pack. All was still in place -- the work was done more out of a fussy fidgeting urge than out of necessity. Dark hair was braided and pinned back from her face, so when she craned her neck and observed the towering spires she didn't have to contend with stray curls impeding her view. Each colossal metal structure looked bewilderingly organic in the way it twisted upwards, almost as though it had been grown instead of built. Cultivated instead of constructed. "This manner of place ought to be documented."
They'd been here a scant day-and-a-half. Or so a pocket-watch assured them, though she doubted even its mechanisms could be trusted in this alien city. Even rudimentary technology seemed to jam up and fail at moments impossible to predict: almost as though a natural force emanating from within the city's heart was doing the jamming. And yet it was their mission to venture further. As it was, she and the man she'd met only once before -- in a far different time and far different place -- were still on the outskirts. Only this hour did they discover this narrow bridge lined with its curious spires.
Spires worth photographing, she still maintained. But the camera had been one the earliest pieces of equipment to go: first jammed by the unknown power at work, and second launched like a makeshift projectile at a sleek-bodied security robot that had come a-calling when they'd dared to spend more than an hour or so with too much distance between them. Bloody well blame Howard for that treat, she thought and cursed and bemoaned. Howard and his idiocy passing for genius. Forcing the genetic passcode onto Logan hadn't been Peggy's first instinct -- indeed, she'd argued against it in the quiet of the SSR office. But Howard hadn't listened.
"Or else I feel as though no one will ever believe us." Peggy fell back a few steps and held out a bare hand. After all, it was time to be in touch again. For their sakes, and for the mission's.
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It was the very reason that prompted him to remove the partially used cigar from his pocket and once more light it up again. Smoking was not as much of a stress relief to him as it was for others, but it worked well enough when it came to strangling his senses. There was too much everything out there and he was tired of smelling it all. This place was wrong and he had long come to regret ever agreeing to the demands of that pencil mustached asshole that had convinced him he was the best choice for protecting the passcode. After his previous mission with Agent Carter, it had become clear that the rough looking northerner was as close to Captain America as any of them were likely to encounter again. But no one would ever argue he was a paragon of virtue. He was capable and strong and his similarities to Steve Rogers began and ended there.
"Personally, I ain't got any plans of talking about this place." He exhaled smoke and grimaced as he stared at her outstretched hand. Of all the complications he'd encountered on missions, this was by far one of the stranger. Howard Stark had justified the physical contact as the only way of keeping the passcode charged, but he'd been tempted more than once to call the bluff and keep moving on his own. Yet that robot had not gone down easily and Logan had nearly lost a hand in the fight. The wound he did take had been deep and one leg of his trousers was soaked in blood, though there was no wound to be found underneath it all. Another encounter like that would make it hard to keep his mutation secret.
Reluctantly he pressed his hand into her and let their fingers entwine, just as they had been instructed. As ever, he could feel the warm pulse in his wrist that indicated the connection was active. Though he glanced briefly at her, he quickly looked away and maneuvered the cigar to the opposite side of his mouth.
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But she couldn't blame him for not caring. He wasn't the one fated to be tasked with writing a single line of these reports. He was here for another reason: muscle; experience; a choleric presence when stepping into the unknown. His qualities were ones that, in many ways, meshed quite well with her own sanguine enthusiasm for a job well done. Yet it didn't make the restrictions placed upon them any easier. Peggy felt a squirm of guilt in her stomach when she pressed her palm against Logan's. Innocent enough, but Howard had made it sound anything but innocent when he'd described what would be required of them to survive. She'd demanded a biological passcode of her own -- but excuses had been made. Time; resources; suitability. Frustratingly, no one would explain to her what made her so unsuitable to carry the burden of her own safety.
So she entrusted it to Logan's care. Uncomfortably and reluctantly. Peggy was a happier soldier when she looked after herself: too often since the war's end had she been betrayed by affection and camaraderie.
"Must you?" She asked of his cigar. In many ways, she envied him the habit. She could use a means to calm her own nerves. "It stinks."
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He puffed from his cigar a second time, though he did so with the decency to exhale opposite her direction. "Not so bad as this place does." He plucked the cigar from his lips and held it out for her as though it were some generous favor, though he knew she wouldn't want it. "But help yerself, teacup. I ain't above sharing."
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A muscle twitched in her cheek: the burdensome attempt not to cough. Throat and lungs burned, but she exhaled a clumsy almost-ring of smoke before relinquishing ownership back to him. Why did she do it? Well, she was no shrinking violet. And an aggressive core of her personality needed him to understand she didn't gripe because of some artificial girlish disdain. Peggy Carter was no prude; she merely had her preferences.
"Teacup," she repeated. Cocking her head, she wondered if he was trying to make her uncomfortable. To one-up her with a diminished nickname. Displace her. But instead she maintained her firmish grip upon his hand and did her best to drive the pace as they marched onto the narrow bridge. "I quite like that."
It reminded her of Angie.
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He grunted an acknowledgement and turned his sights over the edge of the bridge. The chasm below looked like none too friendly a drop. Far below them was what might have once been a river, though it had long ago dried up and left a path of crooked earth. The water might have gone, but it left evidence that it had been a deep river at one time. It seemed unfathomable that all the water could have simply dried up.
"Must be a dam upriver." He raised his free hand to his brow to shield the sun while he surveyed the west. "Or somethin' else. Rivers don't dry up that quick."
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She tugged him along to the brdige's edge, eager to investigate. Tugged being more a state of aspiration than a certainty -- Peggy was more than aware that he could put his foot down and haul her back into place whenever he so chose. But as of yet, it hadn't happened. "I suppose a mere drought would never have persisted. Water returns, eventually."
Or one would hope. Her thoughts hung upon those ominous words voiced by Logan: or somethin' else. They didn't yet know what ended the biological lives of these people -- only that they left fearsome technology in their wake.
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It was no drought that did this. Though it was hard to see from this height, he couldn't even make out a trickle of a stream that had survived the river's demise. She tugged him along and he obliged her being equally curious and concerned at what this finding might mean. For the past hour, they had been moving south with the explicit hope that the city's interior might offer them more clues than the exterior had. So far, it had been much the same. This was different.
He turned to look at the far end of the bridge. Where the road began again, there was an incline that worked its way down to the river. In better days it might have been meant to be the riverbank, but now it would be a dusty and rough scramble to reach the bottom. "The way's steep, but we can make it down there."
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Peggy left blank spaces in her sentences. Absences, whereby she hoped he might infer their meanings. The deeper they pushed into the city's heart, the more and more they risked any time spent apart bringing ruination down upon their heads. Night-time made it a more tricksome thing, and she would offer up no complaints if they spent the remainder of the afternoon hours heading deeper into the perhaps-once-fecund riverbed.
"As for steep, well--" she raised their joined hands. Her smirk was wry -- sharp and thorny. "At least I needn't suffer the indignity of asked for your hand when we get there, yes?"
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He offered her a snort of agreement (such as it was) matched with that twisted grimace that passed for a smile. He squeezed her hand and then directed them to begin walking to the opposite end of the bridge. "I'm startin' to think you're enjoying this."
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Carter asked it in her haughty tone: all arch and little leniency. A kind of false concern over his opinion when (it was supposed) she cared very little whether he thought well or ill of her by-times enjoyment. To add fuel to this feeling, she continued on: "It isn't everyday one gets to be the pioneering soul into an ancient civilization -- provided that's even what these people were."
If the SSR had turned into something of an intelligence bureau in its adolescence, then Peggy Carter still embodied a devilish excitement for the unknown -- for a kind of intelligence gathering that wasn't staid and stodgy behind a desk.
"Aren't you even a little bit curious?"
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The statement did not need conclusion. Logan had already protested about dragging a woman into this kind of situation. She might have proven herself capable against Hydra, but they had the Howling Commandos at their side. It was another matter entirely when it was just the two of them. Even now he persisted in the notion she was in the way and useful only because the passcode required human contact to remain active, regardless of what her insights and talents had brought to the forefront already.
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"A desk is all well and good," she concluded, "so long as there is worthy work being done at it."
Because Peggy didn't spurn the paperwork, she merely wanted to be involved with it. Signing reports, rather than delivering them. Or depositing coffee mugs in their general vicinity. In a twist of cruel fate, it took losing the Chief and nearly losing Howard before the SSR gave Peggy Carter her dues. Doubtless, Thompson would never have signed off on this mission had it not been for what had happened with Leviathan.
"And the same can be said for the field. I follow the trail of what needs doing, Logan," she said his name with a mild reserve. Gentle, almost. To prove she wasn't arguing. "And then I do it. It's only ever been as simple as that."
And to prove her point, she took the first bold step down their intended steep incline. Still anchored by him, of course.
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Meanwhile in Canada....
This was Canada -- rugged, lumberjack-camp-y Canada -- and all the money had loons and Queen Elizabeth on it, not images of President Snow.
Effie didn't really care about this. This seedy establishment was the only open place in the small lumber town where They'd dropped her. She was tired and needed something to eat and drink. If the slovenly woman behind the bar thought she wasn't ready to summon every Peacekeeper within shouting distance to make her see the light, then she had better think again.
She didn't care who else in the bar saw her, either: all dressed to the nines in bright fuchsia and lemon. She liked a spectacle at the best of times, especially when she was in the right. She waved her Capitol 20 in the woman's face.
"You've clearly got no culture in this District, but surely you understand how money works?"
"Look, lady; I only take real cash, eh? Now make yourself scarce before I throw you out on your fine-fettled bee-hind."
Effie bristled...or, more accurately, puffed out a bit like an angry hen. "I always get the most uncouth jobs," she muttered. Then, with a sigh, she set a large diamond ring on the counter. "Will this do?"
The bartender took notice of this, along with half a dozen burly, unsavory types up and down the bar. The chatter in the place subsided as the plaid-shirted woman snatched up the jewelry and tucked it in her pocket.
"I'll start a tab for you."
There. With that taken care of, she could spin around on her stool and take in the local color.
Ugh. Dreadful. She'd have to collect the things the Gamemakers had requested quickly so she could leave all of this plaid and denim far, far behind.
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"Two, Mike. One for me, one for her." He did not so much look at the woman in her ridiculous get up, nor did he have any great interest in her. "Don't go shortchanging the tourists."
Logan still had another bottle of beer in front of him, though it was soon to be emptied. He took a long draft from it and deposited the now empty bottle in front of him. Finally he looked at Effie with the look of pure disdain that can only come from a man who had spent the whole of many lifetimes avoiding people like her. "Yer a long way from Oz, darlin'."
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"Tourist?" she sniffed, though the rainbow-money was captivating. She slipped the diamond back onto one delicate finger. Think, Effie. This man could help with your mission. He was hairy, not overly tall, and slightly...wait.
"Are you a moose?" she whispered, all business.
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"Sure," he answered. "Why not."
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Moose were strong and had such a peculiarly manly scent to them.
"Then I need you," she replied with serious simplicity. "I need you."
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"Great. Needed." He drank deeply. "There's plenty more to choose from here, darlin'. Set yer sights elsewhere."
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At that moment, the bartender showed up with her beer. She took it and drank it eagerly, hardly noticing the flavor. Effie? Not a beer-drinker, but she was parched and hungry, too. Perhaps when she was feeling less needy she'd plague Logan to get her a froufrou girly drink.
She wiped her mouth and continued.
"You're perfect."
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He stood up. "Enjoy the drink. I got places to be."
The other bar on the other side of this small backwater town. The other bar was smaller and dirtier and probably already closed. But it lacked her and that seemed a vast improvement to this place.
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I'm good at being in places." She stood up, bringing her beer with her. No one would probably care about something like that in this neck of the woods. "Let me tell you how grand it will be on the way. And you can tell ME about mooses."
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Driving up deep into the white north had been his way to clear his mind and spend time away from the X-Men. It was his way of reconnecting with what made him who he was. Having a woman who represented everything he was not looking for was a fine way to avoid making any progress whatsoever.
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"I'm already learning so much! Where are we going, again?"
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His frustrated answer of We're not going anywhere was abandoned before it could be stated. Already he could tell that wouldn't work. "You tell me. There some fashion show nearby I can drop you at? A nuthouse, maybe?"
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Not sure where this should jump to -- Arena? Prison? Still on ship? You choose.
idk I'm winging it! let's go for the ship
07
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