Brass Tacks
Cutscene: Brass Tacks
IC Details

In which Isa reflects on the enormity and the nature of her task.

IC Date: April 02, 2020
IC Location: New York City - Midtown East
OOC Notes & Details
Posted: 02 Apr 2020 21:27
Rating & Warnings:
Associated Plots

From the coffee shop on the Hudson, Raisa Ivanovna Yakovleva can almost make out the shape of Roosevelt Island. In the distance, somewhere in the night, she can hear the whisper of tires in the rain; the faint car horns. The city that never sleeps, some call it, and she understands now why that is. She's long learned to filter out the constant noise, but it'll always be unsettling.

On the table, steam curls from a cup of black tea as she looks out to the night.

It's your choice, the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had told her, six months ago.

Like hell I'd refuse, she'd snapped back, sliding her folder across the table.

With that, she'd committed herself to her course. If she had made the wrong decision, it could be no worse than the status quo. A hunted person is a hunted person.

At least now, living in their number, she might know some safety. A purpose, besides what promised to be a long and protracted crusade of vengeance. That thought had galvanized her over the past months.

In another life, she might have given up. It might have been easier to succumb. Not so, now. Icarus Dynamics had made it personal. They'd crossed lines. Friends had disappeared. The timing of the car wreck that took her parents was entirely too coincidental. Then, once she understood their ambitions, the need to stop them eclipsed her vengeance. It became her duty to destroy them, or to die trying.

Now, here in a spring evening in this insomniac western city, it's down to brass tacks. Raisa Ivanovna tips her cup first one way and then the other, watching the tea move with a lidded eye. How to proceed, then, and how to make these first strikes.

Meetings with agents of a certain security clearance will be in order, she reflects, watching the sky darken. I wonder who it was Rocket had in mind to introduce. She wants to illustrate to them exactly how and why Icarus represents such a threat. Why the firm's research is dangerous; why the things that they're doing are enough to turn even her cast-iron gut. From there, perhaps they could begin to take action.

Her gaze drops to the table, eyelid drooping to half-mast. Wrapping her fingers around the mug, she inhales the steam, considering.

Several months now she's been flying for S.H.I.E.L.D., piloting their quinjets, ferrying agents to and from various sites all around the world. There is danger, sometimes, and an awakening of long-buried instincts. There is gratification, too, in knowing those instincts haven't dulled. Above all though she feels satisfaction. She knows now that her choice had not been wrong. It isn't a bad life, anyway, even if her apartment feels more like some strange prop in some foreign movie than a home.

A waitress comes by to take her order. They exchange empty pleasantries that neither feels. Raisa Ivanovna watches her go, and eventually her gaze flicks back to the shadowed island.

She swills the contents of her cup; debates a cigarette.

The question now, she muses, is when. It's going to take convincing evidence and a compelling case if I am to convince those with the authority to act.

A mental catalogue suggests several pages of schematics, slightly blurred prototype photos, and a few pieces of correspondence. Would it be enough? Would they trust the word of a crippled pilot who had resorted to treason and blackmail to secure herself a place here in this new world? Why should they? It wasn't like any of them had a character witness to her better days.

She stares down at her reflection in the teacup, expressionless.

Either it will do, or it will not. I have no more chances to gather more. Regardless. It is time. Enough hesitating.

Fishing out a cigarette and lighting it, she puffs contentedly, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in the booth seat.

I'll find out who the driver of this troika is and make him burn. Preferably, before anyone else's lives are ruined. Raisa Ivanovna puffs smoke and smilies, bitterly.

Come what may.

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