All-Star: Breaking Point (Part V)
War On Two Fronts
"We have quite the extensive file on this Cuban, Agent Carter."
"That so?"
"He's a mercenary and an assassin. A dangerous opponent. Even for a man of your talent."
"You're making me blush, sir."
"Then let's return to your report. The Cuban had somehow located you. He arrived at Lance-Corporal Niebla's residence and-"
"I don't need to hear it again, sir."
"Of course. My apologies. Would you like to explain what transpired between yourself and the Cuban after you encountered him at Lance-Corporal Niebla's residence."
"What transpired? The guy was standing next to my half-dead war buddy with a loaded weapon. I did what anyone in my position would've done."
"I tore his ass up!" One of the security guards standing outside of a large government building said to his partner, complete with an exaggerated gesture. "Drunk bastard's first mistake was messing with my wife."
"You did not, Jerry." His partner said, waving him off. "You're 42 years old and you're a fuckin' fatass. The only thing you could tear up is a goddamned burrito."
"Fuck you, Pauly." The first guard snapped back, shoving his friend.
Preparing to shove his friend back, Pauly stopped as a black Lincoln pulled to a halt before them. A driver in a black suit and pitch black shades stepped out and gave the two men a brief nod before pulling the door to the back passenger door open, allowing a red-haired man in an identical black suit and shades to step out. The man was noticeably both more and less intimidating than the driver. At first glance, the fact that he carried a cane and walked with a limp chipped away at his imposing authority. Regardless of that superficial weakness, though, it was clear from the way that the man carried himself that he was, in his own right, far more dangerous than his subordinate.
Using his cane to support himself, the man shuffled towards the entrance of the building, leaving his driver to stand by their vehicle as he approached the two guards.
"Cold enough for you, boys?" The red-haired man said, flashing his badge. "Special Agent Kurt White. I'm here to see Senator Weathers. He's expecting me."
"He is?" Jerry asked, confused.
"Well, no, he's not." Kurt admitted, wincing. "I was just lying so you would let me in faster."
"Oh." Pauly said, tilting his head. "Uh. Go right ahead, Agent White."
"Special Agent, gentlemen." Kurt replied, stepping into the building with a smile. "I'm very special."
Kurt White had never liked politicians, especially the phony ones with deep Southern accents who had a tendency to disguise bigotry and self-interest with calming words like 'independence' and 'patriot', the ones who would quickly sell their closest friends and family down the river for a few more years of power.
Senator Malcolm Weathers was everything Kurt could possibly despise in a single human being. He was a greedy, conceited, power-hungry dog who hid it all behind a smile and empty promises. He was a relic who feared and loathed change and used fear-mongering to ensure that every paranoid little person sharing his fear of the unknown would stand in his corner come Election Day.
Whereas those paranoid little people had the excuses of ignorance, gullibility and, oftentimes, stupidity, however, Weathers was simply manipulative worm who had worked his way up the political ladder on the backs of anyone unfortunate enough to be of use to him. In short, he was scum, and given the opportunity, Kurt would happily break his nose.
Regardless of what he wanted to do to Weathers, however, Kurt knew what he had to do to him. After a recent call from Nate Carter raised a number of very good questions about the nature of a mission he had recently been deployed on, Kurt had been seeking the truth behind the so called 'package' Nate had been tasked with retrieving.
At first, the impromptu investigation had born no fruit, despite Kurt's numerous connections and high level of clearance. This wasn't due to any particular attempts at thwarting him or tight-lipped accomplices willing to lay down their lives for some grand conspiracy. Instead, it seemed that everyone who should've theoretically known about the nature of the package had virtually no idea what it actually was.
Since setting out on what he thought would be a simple errand, Kurt had been repeatedly met with complete and utter failure. His superiors who had passed the mission onto him had initially been reluctant to disclose any information about the nature of the package. After some persuasion, Kurt found that this was simply because they themselves did not know what the package contained. They promptly directed him to the Department of Homeland Security, responsible for ensuring the safe transit of the package to its new location. To Kurt's frustration, he found that they too were left out of the loop on its contents.
His wild goose chase eventually led him to Chicago, where the facility responsible for the package was supposedly located and where its transport to a new facility had been approved by none other than Senator Weathers.
Kurt had dealt with the Senator before when operating in Chicago early in his career as a government agent. The man had a habit of doing absolutely everything in his power to be an obstacle and seemed convinced that doing so always made him the most important person in the room. Kurt really, really hated him.
His hate for the man he would soon be meeting was all Kurt could really think about as he made his way towards Senator Weathers' office, cane in hand. The pain that flowed through his crippled left leg only served to intensify his hatred as he climbed one of many flights of stairs to the fifth floor of the building, the elevator having been damaged by a particularly obese man the previous day. By the time he had arrived outside of the senator's office, in fact, Kurt could scarcely remember if he had been planning to consort with him or defenestrate him.
Kurt's knuckle briefly rapped on the door to the senator's office and, without waiting for an answer from the other side, barged his way in. Senator Weathers peered up from his desk as Kurt took a seat opposite him, placing the phone receiver in his hands back on its hook. The senator was far from a healthy man. At the ripe old age of sixty, he had suffered a heart attack brought on by a diet consisting mostly of fast food and hard drinking. His stomach, bulbous and rebellious, constantly strained against his ill-fitting suit, eager to break free of its sweat-stained designer prison. His hair was grey and cost a working-class family's monthly food budget to maintain. A bushy grey moustache sat perched on his upper lip, scooping up whatever it could from its owner's last meal and mischievously brandishing it to anyone who would look.
As Kurt sat opposite the senator, he took a brief whiff out of a sense of morbid curiosity. The senator reeked of terrible cologne. His lips curling into a forced smile, Kurt extended a hand in greeting. "Good afternoon, senator. It's good to see you again." He lied, shaking Weathers' sweaty hand.
"This better be good, White." The Senator snapped, dismissively. "Lord knows I don't have time to deal with your department today."
Kurt nodded his understanding as he rested his cane on his lap. "With all due respect, senator, you have no idea which department I'm with."
Weathers huffed, angrily. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me, are you? Classified, is it?"
"Ah," Kurt said, smiling. "I knew you were a sharp one, regardless of what the others said."
"What others?" Weathers asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Let's get down to business." Kurt continued, purposely leaving the senator hanging. "I have a very urgent matter to discuss with you, senator. It's concerning your recent approval of a request by a private company to transport a package from a high-security facility to another high-security facility on the opposite side of the country."
Weathers blinked at White before responding. "Yes, and?"
Kurt, suffering the dullard's response with a short rap on his cane, flashed an insincere smile before elaborating. "Well, I'd really like to know more about this private company and about why you approved their request."
"You don't have the authorisation to-" Weathers began, folding his arms defensively.
"Senator Weathers, I have the authorisation to kill you, stuff you and mount you on my living room wall." Kurt interjected, calmly. "Authorisation isn't the issue, here."
Biting his tongue at what he thought to be a veiled threat, Weathers' eyes panned over to the intercom on his desk.
"By all means, tell your secretary to fetch security." Kurt said, following his gaze. "I'm sure forcefully evicting a high-ranking government official with a crippled leg will do wonders for your public image."
His gaze reluctantly returning to meet Kurt's, Weathers sat upright and placed his hands on the desk, neutrally.
"If you're about done making an ass of yourself, let's talk." Kurt continued, leaning forward. "I want to know what you know about the private company responsible for the package. Who are they and why were they moving it?"
"I don't know." Weathers answered, a little too suddenly.
"That's not true." Kurt sighed. "You don't want to lie to me, senator. I can make your next election campaign very difficult for you. And before you say anything: yes, I do have the authorisation."
Weathers bit his lip, thinking his next step over before relenting. "Gen Co. The company is called Gen Co. I only know what I was told: that they specialise in metahuman genetic research and that they needed to move an important specimen from their research facility to a partner in Los Angeles. They wanted approval and a military escort. I gave it to them."
"Without asking any questions?" Kurt asked, sceptically.
"I've had a lot on my plate, lately." Weathers said, defensively "Election's coming up, and-"
"Here's what's going to happen, senator." Kurt interrupted, authoritatively. "You're going to take a lovely personalised piece of paper from your desk and write the address of Gen Co.'s research facility on it. You're going to neatly fold that piece of paper and hand it to me. You're going to smile warmly and compliment me on my new haircut as I tuck the paper into my pocket and take my leave. Then, you're going to breathe a sigh of relief and hope that I don't come back for you, because if I find out you lied to me or kept information which could mean the difference between the life or death of one of my top field agents from me, I will come back and I will make you wish I hadn't. Understand?"
Weathers nodded, submissively, bowing his head as low as he could to avoid meeting Kurt's eyes. Reaching into a desk drawer and retrieving a piece of paper from its confines, Weathers quickly scrawled an address onto it and carefully began folding it.
"Fold it horizontally, then vertically. There you go." Kurt added, standing up and taking the note once Weathers had finished preparing it. "Thank you, senator."
"You're welcome, Agent White." Weathers replied, glaring a hole through Kurt's head. "Your hair looks positively divine."
Feigning surprise at the compliment, Kurt beamed back at Weathers and chuckled, bashfully. "Senator Weathers, you are a treat. I look forward to our next meeting."
Weathers grimaced to himself as Kurt turned towards the door and limped out of his office, carefully pulling it open and closing it shut behind him. A more genuine smile now plastered on his face, Kurt walked past the electricians with a jaunty greeting and stepped into the newly repaired elevator, tapping a finger against the ground floor button. He adored politicians.
Nate Carter was, first and foremost, a marksman. A daring gunslinger picking to fight his battles from a distance whilst his enemies fell around him like imbalanced dominoes. Those that knew him as the Protector's resident sharpshooter would often think that they also knew how to defeat him. Over the years, there had been many costumed supercriminals and savvy henchmen who believed that the best way to counter a gun-toting Nate Carter was to get as close as possible. In their minds, he was no Sparrowhawk with years of martial arts experience under his belt. He wasn't a dangerous metahuman like Thundrax or Paradigm. As far as mutants went, his powers were highly-specialised and, therefore, very particular at the best of times. It was only logical, therefore, that he wouldn't be too much to handle in a fist-fight.
These people did not know Nate Carter.
Before he was a top-class marksman and a remarkable shootist, Nate Carter was a scrappy orphan growing up on the streets of Hudson City. And, whilst he had since been conditioned into what many would call a perfect soldier, there are some things even intensive training doesn't quite hammer out of you. That's why, when cornered like an animal and with no other option in sight, Nate Carter stopped being the perfect soldier.
As he stared the Cuban in the eyes through furrowed brow and gritted teeth, Nate Carter the soldier fell back on his training. He analysed the situation. He took note of the fact that this mysterious man had a handgun pointed at his tortured friend's head, ready to pull the trigger at the first indication of trouble. He calculated the amount of time it'd take him to charge and disarm the aggressor and weighed it against the amount of time it would take him to pull the trigger in reaction to his attack. He berated himself internally as his eyes darted to the Glock he had left sitting on the kitchen counter and instantly began to search the room for the nearest object he could use as an improvised weapon. Nate Carter the soldier went over every routine process he could think of to tackle the problem laid out before him with as much precision and forethought as possible. Then he saw Javier's beaten, semi-conscious body. He felt Iris trembling with fear behind him. He fought a losing battle against the beast welling up inside him.
Then, Nate the soldier took a back seat. In his place, something else stood tall; Nate the brawler, Nate the little punk who never backed down, Nate the killer. The one who pushed him to pour his everything into his sports career, the one who forced him up as the bigger and the stronger pushed him into the dirt. The one who grinned with savage glee as he lunged recklessly into a group of foes who both outgunned and outmatched him. As his rage resonated through every fibre of his being, Nate the soldier bowed his head in submission. Nate the warrior picked up his slack.
His right hand reaching for an ornamental bowl of fruit on a table nearby as his left hand shoved Iris towards the cover of a sofa, Nate Carter roared in blind fury as he tossed it at the Cuban, causing the larger man to pull his gun from Javier's temple and swerve to the side to avoid having his face smashed in. Already moving, Nate lunged like a whirling dervish, his fingers burning with a desire to close tight around the Cuban's neck. Already in the process of dodging the projectile bowl, the Cuban stumbled backwards as Nate barrelled into him, sending both men crashing onto the coffee table in the centre of the living room.
Glass boring into his arms from the fall, Nate fought through the pain and grabbed the Cuban's wrist, squeezing it and smashing it against a broken table leg to disarm him. With the playing field even, Nate mounted the larger man, wrapping a hand around his throat whilst raining punches down with the other.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" Nate roared, furiously. "Who the hell are you?!"
Reaching for his own improvised weapon, the Cuban snatched a nearby television remote and brought it smashing into the side of Nate's head, sending him staggering off of his mounted position and leaving him open to a sleeper hold. Wrapping his arm around Nate's neck and placing his hand over his face, the Cuban began the gradual process of twisting his neck until a satisfying snapping sound was produced.
"Break!" He yelled, fighting to kill his enraged opponent.
"Not to you!" Nate barked back, driving his thumb into the Cuban's right eye and pressing down. Excruciating pain chipping away at his resolve, the Cuban growled loudly, ceasing his efforts to break Nate's neck in favour of pushing him away. Free of the Cuban's crushing grip, Nate launched a kick at his throat, sending him staggering backwards. His eyes darting over to his Glock on the kitchen counter, Nate scurried towards it.
The Cuban, his hand still grasping his throat, turned to see Nate's mad dash for his weapon and, with a roar that came from an anger deep within, charged after him, tackling him away from the counter and into the fridge.
"No!" He growled, pinning Nate to the fridge by forcing his arm onto his throat. "We settle this as men!"
"That your idea of honour, you twisted bald fuck?" Nate grunted out, his hand reaching for a weapon as the Cuban choked the life out of him.
His grip eventually settling on the handle of the nearby coffee pot, Nate gritted his teeth and swung it into the Cuban's face. The pot exploded in a shower of glass, cold coffee and blood. The Cuban did not relent. Reaching for something else, Nate grabbed the waffle iron resting atop the fridge and proceeded to repeatedly bludgeon his would-be killer with it. Though the Cuban's death grip weakened with each blow, the waffle iron fell apart before he did. With his vision blurring and lights dancing mockingly at the corners of his eyes, Nate made one last desperate grab for a weapon, this time settling on a frying pan. Gurgling out a witty one-liner, he smashed the pan into the side of the Cuban's head, finally breaking his hold and sending the man stumbling backwards, dazed. Grabbing him by the neck, Nate popped the fridge open and slammed the door on his head, repeatedly, hoping it would be enough to finally put him down.
Though the first few blows connected, the Cuban, drawing upon some ungodly resolve, stopped the door with his hand and pushed it hard, bringing it slamming into Nate's nose and reeling him. His world still spinning, Nate took a quick glance around the kitchen. A cooking range stood between him and the Glock resting on the counter and the Cuban was already regaining his equilibrium, his hand reaching for the nearby knife rack. Acting fast, Nate rolled over the cooking range as the first knife flew past, slashing his arm. Grabbing another frying pan from an overhead rack, Nate used it to block the second and third knives before swinging it to knock the fourth one back at its thrower. With the Cuban briefly recoiling from the redirected knife, Nate grabbed his Glock, spinning back to fire just in time for the Cuban to tackle him over the counter.
Now mounting Nate, the Cuban grabbed his arm and wrenched it out of place, causing Nate to cry out in pain and drop the Glock. "We settle this as men!" He panted, sending a punch into Nate's jaw.
"Then," Nate muttered, blood dripping from his swollen lip. "From one man to another, this is gonna hurt."
Grabbing the Cuban by his arms, Nate swung to the left to build momentum before swinging to the right. The two men rolled into a new position, with Nate now a top the large man. With the momentary surprise of the sudden switch giving him more than enough time to launch an attack, Nate pulled his leg back and swung a knee into the Cuban's balls, almost rupturing them with the force of the attack. The Cuban practically screamed in agony, fighting against the pain to deliver a powerful kick to Nate's stomach, sending him flying back into the counter, the back of his head colliding with the countertop. Disoriented, Nate sunk to the floor.
"Sorry," He slurred, bemusedly. "No evil mercenary grandkids for you..."
Slowly rising to his feet, his fury keeping the pain at bay, The Cuban grabbed Nate by his neck and, with tremendous strength, lifted him off the ground, dangling him threateningly with a single powerful arm.
"You been eating your veggies, pal?" Nate mumbled, still dazed. "What do you bench?"
"I will crush your jabbering throat." The Cuban snarled, glaring at Nate with his good eye as he hoisted him higher still. "And I will bathe in your blood."
"Then what'll you do to me, you kinky devil?" Nate quipped, weakly.
"You use humour to mask your fear of death." The Cuban said, strengthening his grip. "Pathetic, but I have seen worse."
"Nate!" Iris cried, darting from behind her cover and grabbing the Cuban's attention.
Acting quickly, Nate used his tongue to push his loose canine from its roots sucking it inwards and positioning it in his mouth. "Hey, chump." He said, prompting the Cuban to turn back to him. "Witty one-liner."
With that, he spat the tooth from his mouth at bullet speed, hitting the Cuban directly in the forehead and subsequently cracking his skull. The Cuban unleashed a pained howl, throwing Nate into Javier's flatscreen in a fit of anger. Caught off-guard by the throw, Nate sailed into the appliance, crashing to the floor in a heap.
Blood dripping from a freshly opened gash on his forehead, Nate gathered himself among the broken glass of the television set and turned to Iris, who still hid petrified behind the counter. Concern for her well-being quickly working its way through the haze of pain and anger, he called out to her.
"Iris! Run!" He yelled, just as the Cuban stumbled towards him and swung a powerful kick into his sides. Nate cried out as one of his ribs cracked and he collapsed to the ground again. The kick was followed by a grapple as the Cuban hoisted the reeling Nate by his shirt.
"Cute." He said, humourlessly.
"You think I'm cute?" Nate asked, winking tauntingly.
Snarling in anger, the Cuban pulled his head backwards and sent it flying back forwards with a powerful headbutt, meant to shatter the unlucky individual on the receiving end's skull.
The attack didn't connect.
As the Cuban brought his head forward like a wrecking ball, Nate slid the broken piece of glass in his hands into a knife-like grip and, bringing it upwards at just the right moment, drove it into the Cuban's slightly-gouged eyes, maiming him gruesomely and causing him to recoil with a sickening cry of pain and surprise. As the Cuban staggered backwards, bringing his hand to his eye, Nate took the opportunity to go on the offense. Shouting a savage battle cry, he launched himself at the bigger man, sending a knee to his solar plexus. With his opponent winded, Nate followed with an elbow to the back and used the momentum from the attack to slam the Cuban into a nearby wall, driving his head right through it.
Satisfied that his attacker probably wasn't going to recover from such an assault, Nate panted his exhaustion and gripped his side, instantly looking around for Iris.
"Iris!" He cried out, pain choking his words. "Iris! We need to-"
An arm coiling around his neck cut Nate's words short as the Cuban swung him through the damaged dry wall and into Javier's bedroom. Nate landed hard, smashing his arm against an end table and staggering to the carpet, groaning in pain. Grabbing his dropped gun and stepping through the newly formed hole in the wall, the Cuban sauntered over to the crawling Nate, pulling him to his knees and sending a bone-shattering pistol whip into his jaw. Blood flying freely from the blow, Nate fell onto his back and struggled to stay conscious.
"You fought well." The Cuban stated, checking his weapon. "You left your mark. You had your fun. Now I will kill you."
"I get that a lot." Nate whispered to himself, closing his eyes and waiting for the end. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."
As the Cuban pointed his handgun at the defeated Nate and pulled the trigger, a bloodcurdling cry rang out from the living room.
"NO!" Iris shrieked, having surfaced from her hiding place to follow the fight. Her arm stretched out as the gunshot rang throughout the house and, in the instant before the bullet penetrated Nate's skull and snuffed out his life, something extraordinary happened.
The bullet stopped inches from Nate's forehead.
Nate opened his eyes, half-expecting that he wouldn't be able to and saw the Cuban's otherwise expressionless face distort in surprise. He saw him turn his gun on Iris, more out of shock than anything else. He saw the gun come apart in his hands and clatter to the floor, softly. Turning ever so slightly to see what was happening behind him, Nate's tired eyes widened at the sight of Iris, once a scared little girl, pointing an outstretched hand at the Cuban, her eyes pupiless and luminescent.
"Iris?" Nate asked in disbelief.
"H-How?" The Cuban stammered, struggling to make sense of what had just happened.
"Go. Away." Iris shouted back at him.
In an instant, the Cuban exploded into a blinding white light with a ghostly wail. As suddenly as the light had engulfed his body, he had vanished without a trace. The bullet fell onto Nate's forehead with an ineffectual clink and rolled to the ground beside him. Scurrying backwards with alarm, Nate turned to Iris as her eyes regained their natural colouring and she lowered her arm.
"Iris?" He asked again, this time with a hint of concern.
Iris didn't answer. Instead, she simply collapsed to the floor, her legs giving out. Quickly pushing his broken body upwards, Nate limped through the hole in the wall and fell to his knees beside her, scooping her limp body into his arms and peering at her. She looked so frail. So helpless. How then had she done what she did to the Cuban? And, more to the point, what did she do to the Cuban?
Not taking his eyes off of the young girl in his arms, Nate mouthed one of the many questions swirling through his mind.
"What are you?"
