Secrets And Lies

"You expect me to believe that the child stopped a speeding bullet and erased the Cuban from existence?"

"No, I don't. She didn't erase him. She moved him. Though, like, time and space."

"You'll forgive me for my scepticism."

"Sir, we live in a world where people can melt through steel by staring at it real hard. Is it really that hard to believe that Iris could have that kind of power?"

"Iris?"

"The package. Iris. It, uh, it was her name."

"Did you become intimate with the package, Agent Carter?"

"I don't see what that has to do with it, sir."

"Then your powers of observation have been grossly exaggerated."

"She was a kid. She was scared and lost. Are you saying it was wrong of me to try and comfort her?"

"What I'm saying, Agent Carter, is that it was wrong of you to get close to her knowing what you had to do."

"What I had to do didn't factor into it."

"I think we both know that isn't true. You were given orders to ensure the package made it back to American soil. Failing that-"'

"All due respect, I've been in this game for five years, training not included. I've fought terrorists, metahumans and freakin' aliens, for crying out loud! I've killed more people than I can count or even hope to remember and I've done it all because people like you leaned back in your fancy chairs and told me to! So you could lie in bed at night and sleep easy with me carrying your weight!"

"Agent Carter, please sit down."

"You do not get to question me! I know from following orders!"

"Agent Carter, sit down! That is an order."

"...Yeah. And I know all about those, don't I?"

"One more outburst like that, Agent Carter, and this debriefing will turn into a disciplinary hearing. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, sir."

"...Alright. Continue."

"...After the fight, I knew Iris and I were in a tight spot. There'd be more and they'd be better prepared and I couldn't let them hurt anyone else to get to her again."

"So you fled?"

"I made a tactical retreat. I needed to make sure Lance-Corporal Niebla was okay and I needed to formulate a plan of action."

"According to our files, Agent Carter, you're something of a tactical genius. Did you really require a retreat in order to formulate a plan?"

"Not at all. I had a plan within a few minutes of the conflict ending. I needed time to think."

"About?"

"About whether or not it was worth the risk."

Nate Carter ran his tongue across his swollen upper lip as he inserted the rusted old nozzle of a rickety gas pump into Javier's sedan. As the muffled gurgle of the gas being slowly pumped into the vehicle broke the morbid silence hanging over him like the tinted veil of a mourning widow, Nate repeated the motion, tracing his tongue across his lip and tasting his own dried blood. He found it lacking. Bland, even.

If there was one thing Nate loathed more than anything else in the world, it was being reminded of his own vulnerability and mortality. As much as he convinced himself otherwise whilst charging into battle alongside his fellow superheroes, Nate wasn't anything invulnerable. And as the heat of battle subsided and his enemies lay dead or beaten at his feet, his mortality was always the very first thing that dawned in his mind. In a world of gods and titans, he was a man masquerading as a champion and, though those heroes capable of levelling entire cities with a wave of their hands told him that he was a special case or assured him that he was their equal, that lingering doubt always festered at the back of his mind, threatening to cripple him from within.

Was he really worth anything? Did he really contribute even half as much to the world as, say, someone who could save an entire burning building with his speed or fend off an invading armada with his strength? Yes, he was a metahuman, but his powers only put him on a level just above your average human. The rest was training and dedication, and even the most arrogant athlete knew that those could only take you so far. They would shake their heads with calming smiles and plead with you to see things from their point of view whilst claiming that you could do anything you set your mind to, and they would only be partially right; because no matter how much you struggled and tried, you could never be like them without the raw talent, the god given powers or the one-in-a-million freak accidents. As much as he tried, Nate would never be as much of a force for good as the genius billionaires and godlike super-beings he allied himself with and, for the most part, he had come to terms with it. He had accepted that he'd never be the strongest or the smartest or even the most devoted. He had decided that, regardless of his disadvantages, he would not only fight with the god and titans, but amaze and astound them.

Still, there was that lingering doubt. A doubt that bubbled to the surface every so often and reminded him that a single well-placed energy blast or fireball could take him out of the game and no one would be surprised. Because despite their smiles and cloying lies, they knew the truth just as well as he did; he was weaker, more vulnerable and less capable than them and it was only a matter of time before he would stop being relevant altogether. It was only a matter of time before they would venture off into uncharted territory to champion their cause and tell him in a tone which would ooze pity and concern:

"Maybe you should sit this one out."

"This is probably a little out of your range."

"What if you get hurt?"

"It's for the best."

As he finished filling the sedan and returned the nozzle to its cradle, Nate hung his head in introspection and released a pent-up sigh which expressed his self-loathing, uncertainty and anger all at once.

He had let his guard down back at Javier's house and very nearly paid the price for his error. Javier had almost died, Iris remained unconscious and he had almost met his demise; not at the hands of some intergalactic warlord, megalomaniacal supervillain or hundred-strong army, but a lone assassin in a foreign land, a single bullet in his head the only remnant of his lost life.

What would he have died for? To protect the secrets and lies of some unknown opportunist? To maybe save them a few million bucks? To unsuccessfully uncover a conspiracy he probably had no choice of even understanding?

Nate's eyes flitted over to the back seat of the sedan, where Iris slept bundled in one of Javier's old jackets, her expression dissonantly peaceful in juxtaposition to their troubled situation and the number of questions surrounding her true nature.

As he watched her sleeping, unsure of just what she was fully capable of, a realisation flooded Nate's mind and prompted him to nod his head, resolutely. He would have died for her. Because no matter how comparatively weak he was, no matter how much the doubt in the back of his mind chipped away at his confidence, he knew one thing for certain: he was strong enough to protect others. And, whilst he may stumble and fall on the way, he would always dedicate every fibre of his being to keeping them safe or he would die confident that he had died fighting for those incapable of fighting for themselves. That was what it meant to be a hero. Not the powers or the gadgets or costumes; the willingness to fight and die for justice.

The lingering doubt slithering back into the dark crevasses of his mind, Nate ran his tongue over his upper lip once more, savouring the taste of his own blood, blood which had been shed to ensure that others would not have to shed theirs. The pain which reverberated through his body from the various wounds he had suffered since swearing to keep Iris safe served as a sharp reminder of that promise. He had been in pain before and he would be in worse pain in the future. So he welcomed it. He carried it and let it remind him of just what it was he was protecting her from. And though he wasn't the strongest, the smartest or the most devoted hero, Nate knew that, in that moment, he was a hero nonetheless.

Turning his back to the sedan and looking through the windows of the convenience store connected to the service station, Nate watched as Javier finished paying the clerk and exited the building. Though he had taken a moment to clean himself up and grab a change of clothes before leaving his home, the marks on his face, busted lip and brown bruises had yet to heal and told volumes of his experience being at the Cuban's mercy.

Pulling a cigarette from a newly purchased carton, Javier stopped beside Nate and lit it with a cheap lighter.

"You smoke?" Nate asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nope." Javier answered, removing the cigarette from his mouth to blow a puff of smoke. "I don't get worked over by muscular hitmen either."

"Jay," Nate started, forcing himself to look his friend in the eye. "I never meant for this to happen. I'm sorry."

"I know you are, Nate." Javier replied, averting his gaze to peer at a nearby raccoon as it chewed through a discarded piece of bread. "I'm not mad at you. We're marines, remember? We know how to take a few lumps."

"But?" Nate said, expectantly.

"But you can't put this off any longer." Javier continued, wearily. "Whatever you're tangled up in, you're at the end game, here. You need to come clean with the girl before you miss your chance."

Nate turned back to face his friend, his expression unsure. "How am I supposed to tell her she might not have a home to go back to? This girl, the things she did, she's obviously not what I thought she was, Jay. And I definitely don't think the guys who want her back have her best interests at heart."

"So you tell her." Javier said, firmly.

"Tell her what, Jay?" Nate asked, his voice raising ever so slightly. "I don't even fully understand what's going on myself. I don't know what she is, I don't know where she came from and I don't know what I'm going to do with her."

Javier hesitated for a moment, as if considering his response. "Then you tell her what you do know. You tell her that she's not a regular girl. You tell her about what you saw and about the men who are after her. You tell her why they want her and you leave the rest up to her. When you saved her from those men, you made her your responsibility, Nate. That means it's up to you to make sure she's safe. From everyone."

"I have orders, Jay." Nate stated, running a hand over his face.

"Yeah? Well I know for a fact you've got a conscience too." Javier said, his tone confrontational. "So I'm interested in seeing which wins out."

Nate rose from his position leaning on the sedan and fixed Javier with a firm look. "Jay-"

"Back in Afghanistan, you were under orders to make sure you escorted an important asset to base camp no matter the cost." Javier interjected, forcefully grabbing Nate's shoulder. "When I took a bullet to the leg during that ambush, you were under orders to leave me behind. Instead, you risked the mission and your life to make sure I made it out of there alive."

"I-" Nate blurted, attempting to get a word in.

"And you did it because you're more than a soldier marching to someone else's beat, Nate." Javier continued. "You did it because you're a hero and a good man. A man whose example I've been trying to follow since he saved my life. You're something else, Nate, and as soon as you realise that, I know you'll do what's right."

Nate weighed up his friend's words with a thoughtful expression before speaking. "What've you been holding onto that since I dragged your ass out of the fire?"

"Fuck you." Javier said, chuckling.

"No, seriously, did you write it down? Do you think of me, like, all the time?" Nate laughed, leaning back against the sedan once more.

"You're a bastard." Javier replied, taking another draw on his cigarette.

"Oh man, I'm your hero, aren't I? I'm totally your hero. I bet you own jammies with little stars on them and eat All-Starios for breakfast every morning." Nate sneered, mockingly.

Javier let loose a barking laugh. "Like you're popular enough to have your own cereal."

Nate chuckled softly, glad for the chance to laugh again. His eyes falling on the carton of cigarettes in Javier's hand, he quickly gestured to it. "Hook me up?"

Javier stopped laughing, taken aback by the sudden request. Nevertheless, he reached into the carton and retrieved a cigarette, handing it to Nate. "You smoke?"

Nate took the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, waiting for Javier to light it before taking a long, savouring draw on it and releasing a thick cloud of smoke from his mouth. "Nope."

Cannibal Santigo was not happy.

As he walked through a forest with a hunting rifle in one hand and a strip of beef jerky in the other, he waited for his guest to arrive and kept a watchful eye peering around the area. Finishing his jerky, he quickly levelled his rifle and began making soft clucking sounds.

Beside him, two burly men stood in a shallow hole, their shovels driving into the dirt and scooping it out. Three dead bodies, neatly packed into black body bags, lay in a pile beside the hole, sodden with the blood seeping through them. The two men huffed with the effort of their labours as they continued to deepen the hole.

"<Would you boys mind keeping it down?!>" Santigo asked, aggressively. "<You're scaring off the animals.>"

"<Yes, boss.>" One of the men answered. "<Sorry, boss.>"

Satisfied with the response, Santigo returned his gaze to the trees and bushes in front of him, searching them for a flash of fur or a faint crunch of movement, anything that would tip him off to the presence of his would-be prey. There was something about hunting that soothed him in times of stress or anger. since his youth and, whilst it was a far cry from torturing small animals in his backyard, it has always caused his parents and teachers to take a mental step backwards and arc a quizzical eyebrow upon hearing of it.

Nevertheless, when he reached the age of 13, his father decided to nurture his affinity for hunting by taking him out on a wilderness retreat in a small forest neighbouring their home. For two days and two nights, father and son bonded over campfire stories and fire-roasted marshmellows as they patiently waited to stumble upon a wandering deer or perched bird.

Though they spent most of their waking hours moving through shrubbery and cleaning their rifles, by the second day neither father nor son had found a single animal worth hunting. In fact, it wasn't until the warm summer afternoon of the second day when his father had wandered off to gather some firewood that the young Santigo met his first wild, undomesticated animal.

His first thought upon seeing the white-tailed deer drinking from the small lake before him was that it was hands down the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on. Its frame was slender, yet powerful, with a fine coat of almost glistening fur lining it. An air of majesty and fantasy emanated from its body like a mystical aura and entranced Santigo as he watched it tentatively lap up water from the lake. He knew then and there that he was in love.

His second thought was to kill it. Adrenaline coursing through his veins and pushing his shaky legs forward, Santigo remembered slowly stalking towards the creature, rifle clasped in his sweaty hands. He remembered how his heartbeat raced as he came within shooting range of the deer and readied himself. He remembered the excitement that surged through him as the deer peered upwards and stared right at him with comely eyes, as if inviting him to take it, as he would go on to take many more.

And he remembered the gunshot. The sudden rush of euphoria. The flushed cheeks and light-headedness. The pained cry of his prey as it collapsed to the ground, injured, but alive. He remembered the passion with which he ran over to the creature and gleefully began stomping on its head until its fragile, tender skull lay decimated at his blood stained feet. He remembered his father's reaction to the graphic scene and the vow of silence they made. And as the two packed up their gear and made their journey back to civilisation, he remembered how suddenly the realisation hit him. He remembered that that was the day he realised he was a psychopath.

So, as he stood in the forest clearing, waiting for his frightened prey to leap from its cover and make a mad, desperate dash for some deluded idea of safety, he remembered that whilst the prey had changed, the hunter within him stayed the same: hungry, lurking, violent. For all his success as a criminal and terrorist, Santigo would always, first and foremost, be the hunter and the whole world his prey. And no hunter wished to acknowledge that his prey had eluded him.

When he received a call from his men informing him that the Cuban had failed to kill the American and retrieve the package, his response was to laugh hysterically, perhaps out of disbelief or surprise. Once his initial reaction had subsided, however, he found that his surprise had been replaced with empty disappointment and sudden self-loathing. For if he was the hunter and the world was his prey, he was also forced to consider the fact that his prey had somehow bested him in order to revise his plan of attack, a notion which would imply that he was not the hunter he thought himself to be.

So he took his father's old rifle and went into the wilderness to remember himself and to remove all doubts that the Cuban's failure had instilled in him. In business and in nature, to doubt is to show weakness and the weak would forever remain prey to the strong. That was the way of the world according to Santigo and, once his plan fell into place that would be the way of the world once more. He would make certain of it.

"<Sir?>" One of the ditch-diggers called, thumbing to a sleek black car which had just pulled to the side of the road to the distance. "<Your man's here.>"

A quick glance to the left ensured Santigo that his man was, in fact, here. The driver and the front passenger stepped out of the vehicle and waited dutifully as the Cuban emerged from the back seat, his face stern and resolute. With his two escorts standing on either side of him, he made his way through the dense forest to the clearing, where Santigo tapped his fingers against his old rifle, impatiently.

"Mr. Cuban." He said, his tone deceptively even. "I wish I could say it's good to see you again."

The Cuban pulled to a stop before his client, his mouth locked shut as he stared him in the eye.

"Now, I've heard some rather troubling reports from my men." Santigo continued, scratching his beard. "Apparently you have managed to fail me in spite of your commendable track record. Not only were you unable to retrieve the package for me, you were also bested by her American ally, which-"

"Not bested." The Cuban interjected, his eyes fierce. "The girl. She is more than you said she was. She did something to me. Sent me away."

"Yes, I was told you were found waiting in a field somewhere." Santigo stated. "I will be taking the gas money out of your payment. Perhaps more, even."

The Cuban bowed his head, his fists clenching in anger. "The American was not what you said he was, either. He is no simple spy, no soldier. He may have defeated me under different circumstances."

Santigo's eyes widened in mild surprise. "Is that so? What did he look like?"

"Black. Tall. Muscular. His hair was patterned. Lines." The Cuban said.

"Hm. Well, that certainly does sound ridiculous." Santigo added.

"There is more." The Cuban said, folding his arms across his chest. "There was another man at the house. The owner. I tortured him."

"And?" Santigo asked, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Did you want a gold star?”

"He was not an easy man to break, but he let something slip." The Cuban continued. "Gave me a name. Nate. Nate Carter."

Santigo averted his gaze from the Cuban for a brief moment, his expression pensive. When he returned to the situation at hand, he turned his gaze to one of the men standing beside the Cuban.

"Contact Manfred. He's good at this." He ordered. "Have him dig up everything he can on this Nate Carter."

The man nodded his affirmation and reached into his pocket for a cell phone, quickly dialling in a number as Santigo turned to the second man.

"Take our friend here back to my villa." He said. "Give him what he needs: a team, weapons, vehicles, anything. If the American is more dangerous than we thought, he'll need it."

"Sir." The man said, bowing slightly.

Santigo spread his arms wide at the Cuban, smiling warmly. "Mr. Cuban, my friend, I have decided to give you a second chance to impress me based on our history together. If our Mr. Carter is half the man you believe he is, you have made my day much more interesting."

"He will not escape me again." The Cuban spoke, calmly.

"Good." Santigo said, slapping the Cuban on the arm. "Go. Hunt."

Turning back to the road, the Cuban and his two escorts made their way over to their car as Santigo returned his attention back to the forest before him, his eyes scanning the area. To his right, a brush ruffled somewhat as one of its branches was stepped on. Spinning around with his rifle in hand, Santigo fired once, the sound of the gunshot echoing throughout the forest and launching a flock of birds into the sky. Moments later, a beaten, nude man with a large bullet hole in his chest fell out of the brush, his hands bound roughly by rope and a ball gag stuffed into his mouth. His eyes rolling upwards and watering from a mixture of fear and pain, he hit the ground like a log, already dead.

"<Boys.>" Santigo called, reloading his rifle. "<Bigger hole.>"

One extended glance at the Gen Co. headquarters in Chicago would tell you that the organisation was far from what it seemed, a statement which rang true as Special Agent Kurt White stepped out of his car and placed his cane on the pavement to steady himself. The medium-sized industrial building was adorned with a large sign reading the company's name and logo: a single strand of DNA intertwined through the 'G' of Gen Co. The electric fence situated around the building's perimeter carried barbed wire on its top for added security and a single security booth at the building's entrance ensured that there would be no easy way in for trespassers and scoundrels.

And yet, there was an intangible element of secrecy surrounding the relatively low security building. Though the parking lot around the building was dotted with cars and motorcycles, none of the vehicles appeared to have been moved for a while and all of them had built up a thin layer of frost from when it had snowed days earlier. The security guard behind the booth cautioned a glance at Kurt when he assumed he hadn't been looking and proceeded to sit upright, his hand on something beneath his desk. Perhaps most suspicious of all, however, was the eerie veil of silence which hung over the entire area and made the hairs on the back of Kurt's neck stand up.

Gen Co. definitely wasn't what it claimed to be and, for Nate's sake, he was going to prove it.

Signalling for his driver to follow him, Kurt made his way over to the security booth, limping slightly more than he needed to. The security guard, whose eyes hadn't shifted from the new arrivals since their car pulled up to the building, quickly averted his gaze and busied himself with the computer on his desk as Kurt and his driver stopped beside his booth.

"May I help you, sirs?" He asked, still typing away.

"You may indeed." Kurt answered, smiling. "I was hoping we could have a quick look inside the illustrious Gen Co. headquarters today. We've come from quite a ways away to do so."

"We're not giving any tours today, Mr. White." The guard replied, flippantly. "I apologise for any inconvenience we've caused you."

Kurt nodded slightly, his mouth curling into a frown of disappointment. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to point out that that wasn't really a request." Reaching into his pocket and drawing his badge, he quickly flashed it to the security guard and waited for his driver to do the same. "Special Agent Kurt White, FBI, CIA, UNTIL, whichever organisation best suits my mood. This is Agent Vickers, my current partner. We suspect Gen Co. may be involved in an ongoing investigation of ours and require immediate access to the premises."

The security guard bit his lip for a short moment, his eyes darting back to the computer screen. "One moment, sir." A few frantic clicks of the keyboard later, the man returned his gaze to Kurt and managed a pained smile. "You'll meet Dr. Kline in the lobby. Sorry for the hold up, Mr. White."

Kurt smiled back, almost gloatingly. "Think nothing of it. I most certainly won't."

Turning towards the Gen Co. building, Kurt began walking over to the entrance, Vickers at his side.

"What are you expecting to find, sir?" Vickers asked, his voice low.

"He called me by my name before I had even introduced myself." Kurt responded, his walk becoming more brisk. "I'm expecting to find the truth."

Emerging into the lobby, the two agents quickly gave the area a once over. A front desk sat at the centre of the lobby with an isolated wall with the Gen Co. logo mounted on it blocking the visitor's view of the happenings within the building. At the desk, a pretty receptionist sat smiling at them, beckoning them towards her.

"Welcome!" She said, cloyingly. "You must be Agent White and Agent Vickers. Dr. Kline will be with you in a moment. Put on these guest badges while you wait."

"Thank you, miss." Kurt said, taking his pass and clipping it to his suit pocket. "I must say, that is an interesting scar on your neck. A knife wound?"

The secretary instinctively moved a hand to cover her neck, concealing the slightly exposed scar from Kurt's view. "I was mugged a while back. I'm lucky to be alive."

Kurt quickly flashed a friendly smile back at her, raising his hands defensively. "Of course. I didn't mean to be rude, it just seemed like a rather deep cut for a civilian knife. Quite the malicious mugger."

The secretary laughed in response, returning to her paperwork. "Yes, I thought so."

Just then, as if perfectly timing his entrance, a spindly middle-aged man in a long white lab coat rounded the corner made by the front desk and stepped forward to greet his visitors. His hair greying and reclining and his eyes almost hidden by the thick lenses of his glasses, he held a sweaty hand out to Kurt and Vickers, shaking both their hands vigorously.

"Hello, Agent Vickers. Agent White." He said, his tone warm and friendly. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Nothing major, Dr. Kline." Kurt replied, keeping his grip firm through the handshake. "We simply wish to ask your people some questions about a recent incident. Am I correct in understanding you're the head scientist here?"

"Yes, yes I am." Kline said. "Dr. Herbert Kline, geneticist. I run the team, here."

"Geneticist?" Vickers repeated. "What exactly does Gen Co. do, doctor?"

Walking past the front desk and down the lobby with Kurt and Vickers in tow, Kline pulled a small organiser from his pocket and began sorting through it. "Isn't it obvious? Here at Gen Co. we put pride in our steps towards ensuring a better future through genetic research. For example, we regularly research new ways to counter hereditary diseases and illnesses, new methods of gene therapy-"

"And what about metahuman genetics?" Kurt interjected, suddenly. "I'm sure Gen Co. must have some investment in that field."

The doctor hesitated for a moment before answering. "Yes, we are involved in some metahuman genetic research. Mostly to gain an understanding of how metahuman genes function. Isolating a particular metahuman gene could have a range of positive applications for medical science, technological advancement-"

Kurt cut his eyes at Kline. "You forgot to mention the military applications of being able to give a soldier marching into the field a level five healing factor in his corn flakes."

"Or creating walking bombs out of death row inmates." Vickers added, glancing at a nearby laboratory window as they passed it.

"I assure you, Gen Co. wouldn't dream of that sort of human experimentation." Kline said, speeding up his walk by a fraction. "We follow strict ethical guidelines. Would you like to see one of our current projects?"

Not waiting for an answer, Kline made a sharp turn at an intersection in the corridor and stopped by the solitary door at the end of it. Stooping low to put a small electronic panel bolted by the door at eye level, Kline quickly tapped in a passcode and waited as the panel scanned his retina. After a few moments and a quick chirp, the door slid open to reveal a large circular room with a holographic projector in its centre, a strand of slowly revolving DNA being emanated from it. The handful of scientists buzzing around the room quickly stopped their work and looked towards the entrance as the three men stepped in. A dismissive wave from Kline quickly sent them back to their individual tasks like single-minded worker drones.

"What's that?" Vickers asked, slightly more interested in the scientists. Kline grinned proudly at Vickers, eager to unveil more about his work. "That is a holographic representation of our latest project. A visual aid, if you will. If you take a look here, we've altered the adenine structure of this strand drastically. By manipulating the bonds between the adenine and the thymine and effectively hyper-charging them with a certain kind of controlled radiation, we've theoretically found a way to increase the human metabolism tenfold, providing a source of near-infinite metabolic energy. It's kind of a big deal."

"And that's your big project?" Kurt asked, resting his hand beneath his chin. "Limitless metabolic energy?"

"That's correct." Kline answered.

"And would that be why we haven't encountered or even seen a single scientist outside of this particular lab during our short tour?" He continued, fixing the doctor with a stern expression.

Kline fumbled for a second. "W-Well, there are a few more labs on the upper levels where-"

"Wanna show us these labs?" Vickers said, his gaze now turned to Kline.

"Or perhaps you'd like to show us to the president of Gen Co." Kurt said. "Provided he didn't evacuate the moment Senator Weathers warned him we were coming."

"O-Of course, I would." Kline stuttered. "Allow me to just-"

"Allow me to just." Kurt cut in, his voice raised. "Outside of this building, there are roughly thirty armed men, three SWAT vehicles, two attack helicopters and three very helpful Protectors of the World ready to storm the place if I don't relay a certain phrase to them in the next..."

Vickers checked his watch, casually. "Five minutes."

"Five minutes." Kurt continued, nodding his thanks at Vickers. "So you can do this one of two ways; You can try your luck, place your secrets and lies at a higher value than your own lives. Or you could tell the countless hired guns posing as Gen Co. staff and preparing to dispose of us to lower their weapons and surrender. Your choice."

Kline trembled at Kurt's words, frozen in place as his hand edged towards the handgun hidden in his labcoat.

"I know an ambush when I see one, Dr. Kline." Kurt added, hands resting in his pockets. "I also know a failed ambush when I thwart one. Three minutes."

His shoulders sagging in defeat, Kline reached into his other pocket to withdraw a comm link device, quickly speaking into it. "Call it off. They have us."

The sound of guns being unloaded and dropped to the floor filled the room as the fake scientists quickly disarmed themselves and surrendered. Vickers moved towards one of the weapons on the floor, scooping it up and reloading it before pointing it at the surrendering men.

"On the floor, face down. Hands where I can see 'em." He barked, watching vigilantly as they did just that.

Satisfied, Kurt raised a hand to the comm piece in his ear and pressed it. "This is Special Agent Kurt White. Passphrase: 'Breaking Point'. Send in the troops and start sweeping. We've got 'em."

"I'm sorry..." Kline mumbled, sitting on a stool to take the pressure off of his shaky legs. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't believe you, Dr. Kline." Kurt said, dismissively. "Why don't you convince me with a few kind words?"

"Anything!" Kline said, frantically. "Just- Please, I'm just a scientist! I-I-I just took orders!"

"Then take mine." Kurt snapped, cutting the panicking man short as he stooped to meet his gaze. "My finest agent and best friend is trapped in a foreign land with a little girl in his care and an army of terrorists at his back. That little girl, I do not know. What I do know is that she can be traced back to Gen Co., a company which, according to my many sources, acts as a front for illegal genetic research on metahumans. A company which has well-hidden ties with organisations such as VIPER and GAIA. A company which isn't really a company at all."

"We just wanted to make a change. We needed their funding to-" Kline interrupted, defensively.

"I don't care!" Kurt shouted, reducing Kline to a snivelling mess. "Now, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about Gen Co., Senator Weathers and, most importantly, our mysterious little girl."

Nate Carter struggled to keep his eyes open as he drove Javier's sedan down the rocky Venezuelan road. He hadn't slept well since arriving in the country, with hostiles haunting his waking hours and nightmares plaguing his sleeping ones. Beside him, Javier peered out of the window, his mind far away in a field of thoughts. Iris still slept in the back seat of the vehicle, peacefully snoring and dreaming of things Nate could only imagine.

When she woke, he would have to talk with her. He would have to get to the bottom of what she had done to the Cuban and the mystery of her origins. For now, though, another thought occupied his mind, blaring within his head like a wailing siren. He couldn't help but think of it.

"We're gonna need to find somewhere to hole up." Javier said, breaking the silence. "Get some sleep. Maybe figure out what we're doing next."

"I know what we're gonna do next." Nate said, almost to himself.

Javier turned to face him, curious. "What's that?"

His eyes not leaving the road ahead, Nate turned at a corner with a gentle nudge of the steering wheel.

"We're going shopping."