Narrative Who: Max (and a few NPCs) What: "Changing," and getting a new assignment Where: Her apt. → Washington D.C. → Her apt. When: Nowish Warnings/Rating: A dead guy?
Max went to bed with the intention of waking up in the morning and telling her S.H.I.E.L.D. superior where to shove it. After all, she'd been on the run from the government for the last three months. Being on the run from a comic book organization couldn't be much more challenging than that.
Max woke up with a very different plan.
She'd gone to bed sick, still fighting off the flu that had been making her down Zinc and Echinacea like they were water. The first thing she noticed, when she rolled over in her bed, was that nothing hurt.
Nothing. Hurt.
Not the flu. Not her shoulder, which was always sore these days thanks to years of kickback. Not her hips, which hurt every second of every day, and even more in the morning. Not her leg, her bad one, the one that still wouldn't take weight well after a day of standing.
Nothing. Hurt.
She rolled out of bed like she had ten fewer years on her bones, and she stopped right.there. She couldn't see a mirror from her bed, but she could see her reflection in the television. She stared, and then she rushed into the bathroom. She placed her gun-calloused fingers on the edge of the sink, and she stared at the woman in the mirror. The reflection was blonde. Blonde. When she was a teenager, she'd tried to dye her hair blonde, wanting to look more like her sister. But, the General had told her, without pulling any punches, she was too dark skinned to pull it off. She'd never bothered trying again, but this wasn't dye. She dragged two fingers along a strand, and it was dry, unhealthy, as if the colored had been seeped out of it as she slept.
And her eyes.
Her eyes were blue. At her age, she wore reading glasses, but she was never one for contacts. These weren't contacts, and she blinked a few times. Maybe she'd finally lost her mind. Maybe, after all those years of blood beneath her fingernails and bodies in bags, she'd lost her mind.
Strangely, she found that the prospect didn't actually frighten her all that much.
And so, she changed her mind about S.H.I.E.L.D. She still intended to quit, but she wanted to ask some questions first. Like, did they have strange things in the water here that she should know about?
She dressed in khakis and a button down, and she grabbed her keycard and papers, and she took a cab to the airport, and then a cab to Triskelion. Which, she had to admit, was impressive, even after spending a years going in and out of Langley.
But once she was inside, she changed her mind again. This was familiar. Even with blonde hair, blue eyes and a skip in her step that hadn't been there since she'd landed herself in a wheelchair, this she knew.
A few hours later, she left with a squeaky clean driver's license and a new social security card. Marquilla Mackenzie, Mack for short, was a trainer at a gym on the lower east side. She had some interesting clients, and Max - Mack - had no fear of long-cons or deep jobs. And she had an excuse for the name change, should anyone she know ask: She was avoiding S.H.I.E.L.D. Everyone on the journals had seen her insist she wasn't taking the job, so it worked out well.
She didn't ask about the hair, the eyes, the scars that had disappeared overnight. She wasn't stupid. The government had fucked her over once, and she knew what to play close to the vest. She'd gotten the feeling, on the journals, that S.H.I.E.L.D. was some superhero haven, but it wasn't. Maybe it wasn't officially government, but it was close enough.
She rented a car for the drive back, and the four hours felt like nothing. Maybe a stop for a beer? She stopped in Newark, at a place where the neon on the sign flickered intermittently. The beer was cheap and American, just how she liked it, and it wasn't until her third that things went wrong.
She brushed the barkeep's hand inadvertently. She grinned, and he leaned closer and asked if she wanted to meet him in the back when his shift ended. And why not? Another beer, and they were in the backroom, her pants on the floor and her ass on a desk that hadn't been cleaned in years. He was a good kisser. He didn't make her think of McKendrick, of Brandon, of Corvus. His shirt came off, and it joined her pants on the floor. Her fingers found his jaw.
Her fingers found his jaw.
There was something, a flicker of something, like shock. He began convulsing, and she watched him in shock for a second. Just one second, because instinct honed on dozens of battlefields kicked in. She bent over him on the ground, and she began chest compressions, but the convulsions only became worse.
She was still there, kneeling, when the ambulance came, called by the bartender that had relieved the dead man on the floor.
No, she didn't know what had happened. And when she touched that other bartender, his hand extended to help her stand, it was fine. Better than fine. She felt a surge of something, she felt stronger, but he wasn't hurt and neither was she. Maybe it was just a coincidence? She didn't notice the way he looked at her when she left, after the paramedics indicated the cause of death was a heart attack.
She didn't make any stops after the police report that bore her new name in black letters.
She went home.
And, just in case, she went online and ordered some gloves. She had the feeling she might be needing them. And if the laptop turned on, even though the battery was dead, she didn't notice.