Percy Jackson Avenger and S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent

2017 (1)

Boy, and I thought that Budapest was bad.

Turns out that one of the various perks of a high-risk job like ours, is that when things go even slightly wrong, very, very bad things happen. Death being one of them (along with torture and all sorts of equally unpleasant other things).

And that is exactly what my first (and last) mission of 2017 entailed.

We were in San Francisco when It happened. Our first proper mission failure. It turns out that taking down a drug smuggling ring that were managing to convince several people to overdose and die every day was not as easy it it seemed on Brooklyn 99, which is really a shame.

Okay, so something really weird happened and I completely lost concentration when guarding the area where Clint was setting up a perch. There was a kind of surge in my stomach and I must admit that I thought I was going to puke for a second, but it passed and I was slapped in the face with a powerful reek of salt. Shadows in the alleys danced as if taunting me, and in that moment (because life's a bitch like that) while my guard was down, I was jumped by about six guys at once and bashed over the head. Go Percy.

Just like in every spy movie ever, I woke up tied to a chair. Metal, for clarity. It was cold.

The spy movies don't show the dry, fuzzy mouth, pounding headache and dried blood crusted over all over the back of your neck, because that's not glamorous, but that was there too. There were four zip-ties on each wrist to secure me to the chair. After a bit of wriggling and splitting the skin on both, I decided that these guys knew what they were doing and were expecting somebody like me: trained to slip restraints (well, instructed to break your thumb if you have to - you don't practise that one) and generally beat them up and destroy their whole ring they had going on.

They'd also taken my comms unit with some force, judging by the flaking blood that cracked on the side of my face as I shook out my somewhat sore jaw. That and the notable lack of chatter from Clint, naturally.

Lovely.

The door (metal) swung open on oiled hinges, and a pair of metal-shod boots clomped in (what was it with these guys and metal - they were worse than S.H.I.E.L.D.). Great, I love this part.

A meaty and surprisingly not-calloused hand gripped my chin and forced my head up to look into a pair of narrow, watery blue eyes set in an extremely square face (right down to the haircut).

And, just like in the spy movies, he decided to make some demands. "Who are you? Why are you here? Who do you work for?" he snapped in a slightly intimidating fashion (once you've stared Director Fury in the eyes nothing is truly intimidating anymore).

Okay, so he clearly didn't know what S.H.I.E.L.D. was. I guess that's a plus.

"I'm an alien from another dimension sent to learn about humanity," I deadpanned, earning a my left cheekbone a collision with a harsh fist, sending stars flashing across my vision as my head snapped to the side. Fresh blood trickled from the slight split in the skin.

I furrowed my brow in a mildly affronted fashion. "Oh, so you don't believe me? That's rude. I thought humanity were supposed to be more welcoming than this."

Okay, so I was trying to drive him up the wall, so I shouldn't have been surprised when he lashed out with his lovely steel toe-capped boots in what certainly felt like a successful attempt to snap my shin bone into several lovely little pieces. He snarled, little flecks of spit landing on my face, which was majorly gross as I couldn't wipe it off. Then, to make my day even better, he produced an enormous serrated knife out of nowhere and held it up to the corner of my eye. His voice dropped to a threatening hiss. "Who are you working for?"