One Vial
Explosive
“What the fuck?” I whisper. My eyes are fixed on my orange hands.
My glowing. Orange. Hands.
The glow moves, pulsing. It’s not like the movements of a flame, but that of a heartbeat…of a fluorescent orange heart. I hesitantly bring my hands closer and almost gasp when I see tiny yellow sparks darting across my skin. I then take a look at at the prominent veins on the underside of my wrists. And they’re all too clearly running up my arms, bright red.
The glow is creeping higher.
Oh god.
“We need to get the envelope!” someone hisses and I finally look up, remembering where I am. The hostiles are all gathered around, glaring at me, but don’t dare take a step closer than necessary. I’m just trapped.
“Well you’re not getting it,” I inform them. The paper lays within my reach, having been dropped in the mayhem.
“And how are you going to get it without burning it up, huh?” some douchebag points out and a few of them laugh.
I feel the rest of my arms starting to get pleasantly warm.
“I’m creative,” I say to the challenger, then shuffle over on my knees to the envelope. I carefully bend it between my legs then lean down and pick it up with my teeth.
Perfect.
I get to my feet then start walking towards the people blocking my way to the door. They stand shoulder to shoulder, but their fear is almost tangible. I raise one of my hands and one of them actually squeals and dives out of the way. I brush past the guy closest and he yelps as I accidentally singe his uniform, and no doubt the hairs on his arm.
I twist the door handle, watch in wonder as the metal adopts the same colour as my hands, then step through. When it clicks closed behind me, I slump down against it. I suppose it’s a stupid thing to do, just waiting outside with all of them so close, but I need to catch my breath and figure out my next move.
Which is to set the place on fire of course. Oops.
The wooden door is burning up behind me and I jump in surprise.
“The propane! By the door!” people are screaming desperately inside and my eyes widen in horror. And I do the only thing that makes sense to me; I run.
*
The murky water hisses as I push my arms into it and steams hits me in the face. It seems to be working though; the orange is fading and my skin returning to its regular pasty colour. If anyone were to see me right now though, hanging off the side of a jetty with my arms in the water, I might get a weird look or something worse.
The warehouse blew to heaven less than five minutes ago and my ears are still ringing. Thick, pungent, black smoke continues to rise into the air and if I get the right angle, I can see the flames. I try not to think about the screaming that stopped after the explosion, but that’s pretty hopeless. Honestly, how was there no other exit? How did they not figure out some way to get out?
I pull my arms out of the water and sit upright. My skin is cool to the touch and only my shirt shows signs that my arms were ever on fire, so I leave before the authorities arrive to clean up my mess. I then hit the speed-dial on my phone.
“The number you’ve reached is not in service at this time-”
“God damn it!” I say and let a string of ruder obscenities pour from my mouth as I continue the walk to my car. How is a S.H.I.E.L.D. number not in service? And after this? Something horrible and world-threatening better be going on right now or I’m going to be pissed.
There’s only one option here though. If S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t answering, I need to go to the closest person to S.H.I.E.L.D.
“I’ve got a delivery for you, Mr Stark,” I murmur and climb into the car.
*
‘Where am I supposed to knock?’ is the first thought that pops into mind when I see Stark’s mansion, but the door is already open when I get out of the car. Or at least I think it’s the front door.
“Mr Stark?” I call as I enter the foyer. There’s a smash as a glass hits the floor somewhere I can’t see.
“The incredibly handsome master of the house is not home!”
“That is the worst accent I’ve ever heard, Mr Stark,” I say. I’ve been warned about dealing with the man in the suit to say the least.
“And you people have the worst manners,” he tells me as he rounds the corner, the core of his suit shining through his Black Sabbath shirt. I gulp as I see the glow where skin should be. “Don’t any of you knock?”
He leans against the wall, bottle of scotch in his hand. His eyes remind me of a hyperactive puppy, observing me like he’s deciding on the perfect game to play.
“Your door was open.”
“Huh, well you really can’t trust the help these days,” he says with the roll of his eyes. “Now, which one are you? Agent Stick-up-the-Ass or Agent Mr-Stark-Be-Serious. They’re interchangeable really though.” I resist the urge to bite back.
“Agent Nicole Scott,” I tell him with a smile on my face. He raises his eyebrows, not like he’s surprised, but rather like he knows exactly who I am.
“Then you’re not totally useless after all. You have something for me?” I thrust the envelope at him, glad to finally be rid of it.
He laughs when he reads what’s inside. I frown. Seriously, I went through all of that just to get a laugh out of him?
I can’t help it, I snap, “What’s so funny?”
“Some pen-pusher I’ve never met thinking he can give me orders.” He then screws up the paper and tosses it over his shoulder.
“The Avengers isn’t my boss’s jurisdiction,” I supply, confusion colouring my tone. It’s either confusion or anger that something I risked my life for, and cost others their lives, isn’t even taken seriously by Stark.
“Oh, he doesn’t want me for some mission. He wants me to strap you to a table and perform tests on you like a lab-rat. But I’ve got other things to do.”
“W-what?!” I sputter.
“Want a drink?” he asks cheerily, waving the bottle of scotch.
My glowing. Orange. Hands.
The glow moves, pulsing. It’s not like the movements of a flame, but that of a heartbeat…of a fluorescent orange heart. I hesitantly bring my hands closer and almost gasp when I see tiny yellow sparks darting across my skin. I then take a look at at the prominent veins on the underside of my wrists. And they’re all too clearly running up my arms, bright red.
The glow is creeping higher.
Oh god.
“We need to get the envelope!” someone hisses and I finally look up, remembering where I am. The hostiles are all gathered around, glaring at me, but don’t dare take a step closer than necessary. I’m just trapped.
“Well you’re not getting it,” I inform them. The paper lays within my reach, having been dropped in the mayhem.
“And how are you going to get it without burning it up, huh?” some douchebag points out and a few of them laugh.
I feel the rest of my arms starting to get pleasantly warm.
“I’m creative,” I say to the challenger, then shuffle over on my knees to the envelope. I carefully bend it between my legs then lean down and pick it up with my teeth.
Perfect.
I get to my feet then start walking towards the people blocking my way to the door. They stand shoulder to shoulder, but their fear is almost tangible. I raise one of my hands and one of them actually squeals and dives out of the way. I brush past the guy closest and he yelps as I accidentally singe his uniform, and no doubt the hairs on his arm.
I twist the door handle, watch in wonder as the metal adopts the same colour as my hands, then step through. When it clicks closed behind me, I slump down against it. I suppose it’s a stupid thing to do, just waiting outside with all of them so close, but I need to catch my breath and figure out my next move.
Which is to set the place on fire of course. Oops.
The wooden door is burning up behind me and I jump in surprise.
“The propane! By the door!” people are screaming desperately inside and my eyes widen in horror. And I do the only thing that makes sense to me; I run.
*
The murky water hisses as I push my arms into it and steams hits me in the face. It seems to be working though; the orange is fading and my skin returning to its regular pasty colour. If anyone were to see me right now though, hanging off the side of a jetty with my arms in the water, I might get a weird look or something worse.
The warehouse blew to heaven less than five minutes ago and my ears are still ringing. Thick, pungent, black smoke continues to rise into the air and if I get the right angle, I can see the flames. I try not to think about the screaming that stopped after the explosion, but that’s pretty hopeless. Honestly, how was there no other exit? How did they not figure out some way to get out?
I pull my arms out of the water and sit upright. My skin is cool to the touch and only my shirt shows signs that my arms were ever on fire, so I leave before the authorities arrive to clean up my mess. I then hit the speed-dial on my phone.
“The number you’ve reached is not in service at this time-”
“God damn it!” I say and let a string of ruder obscenities pour from my mouth as I continue the walk to my car. How is a S.H.I.E.L.D. number not in service? And after this? Something horrible and world-threatening better be going on right now or I’m going to be pissed.
There’s only one option here though. If S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t answering, I need to go to the closest person to S.H.I.E.L.D.
“I’ve got a delivery for you, Mr Stark,” I murmur and climb into the car.
*
‘Where am I supposed to knock?’ is the first thought that pops into mind when I see Stark’s mansion, but the door is already open when I get out of the car. Or at least I think it’s the front door.
“Mr Stark?” I call as I enter the foyer. There’s a smash as a glass hits the floor somewhere I can’t see.
“The incredibly handsome master of the house is not home!”
“That is the worst accent I’ve ever heard, Mr Stark,” I say. I’ve been warned about dealing with the man in the suit to say the least.
“And you people have the worst manners,” he tells me as he rounds the corner, the core of his suit shining through his Black Sabbath shirt. I gulp as I see the glow where skin should be. “Don’t any of you knock?”
He leans against the wall, bottle of scotch in his hand. His eyes remind me of a hyperactive puppy, observing me like he’s deciding on the perfect game to play.
“Your door was open.”
“Huh, well you really can’t trust the help these days,” he says with the roll of his eyes. “Now, which one are you? Agent Stick-up-the-Ass or Agent Mr-Stark-Be-Serious. They’re interchangeable really though.” I resist the urge to bite back.
“Agent Nicole Scott,” I tell him with a smile on my face. He raises his eyebrows, not like he’s surprised, but rather like he knows exactly who I am.
“Then you’re not totally useless after all. You have something for me?” I thrust the envelope at him, glad to finally be rid of it.
He laughs when he reads what’s inside. I frown. Seriously, I went through all of that just to get a laugh out of him?
I can’t help it, I snap, “What’s so funny?”
“Some pen-pusher I’ve never met thinking he can give me orders.” He then screws up the paper and tosses it over his shoulder.
“The Avengers isn’t my boss’s jurisdiction,” I supply, confusion colouring my tone. It’s either confusion or anger that something I risked my life for, and cost others their lives, isn’t even taken seriously by Stark.
“Oh, he doesn’t want me for some mission. He wants me to strap you to a table and perform tests on you like a lab-rat. But I’ve got other things to do.”
“W-what?!” I sputter.
“Want a drink?” he asks cheerily, waving the bottle of scotch.