Daisy Johnson (bad_vibrations) wrote in oh_marvelous, @ 2011-07-31 21:28:00 |
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Entry tags: | z: om1: !closed, z: om1: affiliation: s.h.i.e.l.d., z: om1: location: new york, z: om1: past character: daisy johnson, z: om1: past character: medusa |
Training
Characters: Agent Johnson and Agent...uh...Medusa
Setting: New York, mid-morning.
Content: Swearing, hair, maybe shooting things.
Summary: Field work for the rookie.
Training was a lot of what Daisy did. If it wasn't her own team, it was special powered agents that the General assigned to her to keep her thinking, or remind her that he was still in charge and could do cruel and unusual things to her if he so chose, either one. Mostly, what she knew about training was that it was much easier being on this end than that one; S.H.I.E.L.D., as an organization, had raised the act of withholding information into an art form, or a fetish, or a combination of miraculous depravity. It was fucking nerve wracking. Even with Level 10 clearance, accomplishing anything always happened with a set of elaborate blinders, whether you knew they were there or it only came out in the wash. Being a trainee was regularly like being sent down the catwalk in nothing but a blindfold. Daisy only made it through by channeling all of the pent up anxiety into the punching bag or the bad guys.
What Daisy knew about training was she never wanted to go back to knowing so little. For the brief, here were the facts:
On a currently halted construction lot, the bare frame of a skyhigh apartment building, Agent Johnson had prepared a surveillance platform for Probate Medusa and herself, three stories up and the heat mostly tolerable with the breeze moving through the unfinished structure. Across the street, a small, private investment firm, the subject of their surveillance, and not a particularly lively place. Cabs didn't slow down, it was off of the subway line, people didn't really slow to take notice of the tinted windows unless they were fixing their hair. Agent Johnson wore her uniform with a big, floppy sunhat that wasn't particularly conductive to keeping a low profile, and an earpiece which she either mumbled to or mumbled to herself. What all parties (Johnson, Medusa, earpiece) were privvy to was intel detailing a plot involving some kind of trading savant, kidnapping, and full impact, hands-on, technicolour identity theft. They were supposed to watch for anyone suspicious who might look like the type to steal some nerd's life and fuck off to Malta with his new bank account. Agent Johnson, thus far, had not been particularly chatty, social, or otherwise friendly. She, for the record, was just not the type.
She sat at the edge of the platform with crossed legs and binoculars raised to her eyes, squinting through them and the sunlight down at the firm. In her ear, another agent noted, "All clear."