The Untold Truth ∘ Marvel [2]

Chapter Two: I'm No Paris, This Isn't Troy

My walk is too fast a pace to be leisurely. I maneuver around minimally busy halls, doing my best to avoid brushing shoulders with anyone as I take the way to the nearest weapon's room. My head is buzzing, my pulse beating too loud in my eardrums. Several thoughts play in my head, repeating themselves like a symphony that only knows one song.

I have to tell Fury.

Fury must already know.

How is he alive?

But I had to find May, the Bus, Sky. Whatever they were.

The brief idea of reporting this to higher command was swept away as I kept moving, feeling as if I could flee from the call, from everything, yet that wasn't an option. I heard his voice, so clearly it's jarring and it seems as if he will just appear before, unharmed and alive.

Fury lied. If he didn't, then someone wanted to draw me in.

Luckily, my next op was scheduled several days from now, giving me time to figure out exactly what was going on with that phone call. I could choose to do nothing about it and waste away uselessly in the air. Another option was to report my findings to the director and have another agent take over whatever mission he'd been sent on.

The last was to do something about it. If he was alive, SHIELD lied to me. If he wasn't, someone wanted me vulnerable. This was a personal matter, bringing up Coulson like this. In my scattering mess of a brain, I decided on the last given option.

But that I needed to go at least somewhat prepared, which at the moment I greatly wasn't. That meant I had to see a certain weapon's designer.

I made it to my first destination, the weapon's lab. I wait for the sliding glass to open, already spotting a familiar blonde head of hair through the transparent door. When I walk in, the woman takes no notice, back facing the room's entrance. A soft hum emanates through the space, and she spins around. Her earbuds block out any sound of my unexpected arrival, and she nearly jumps out of her own skin when she spots me, stumbling back to her prior spot.

"Jesus!" She peeps, an extreme flinch coursing throughout her body as she tears out her music, pulling at the strings of her earbuds to let them drape alone as she catches her breath.

"Just Sienna. Afraid this isn't a casual visit. I need two small flame throwers, five grenades, two miniaturized EMPs, ten new knives, and a whole load of those rope bullets you've been making for me. Hate to rush you, but it's a little bit urgent." I try my best to sound as casual as I can, satisfied when I hear no audible distress in my own voice. My breath is still, but if anyone were to listen to my heartbeat, it'd betray me without fault.

Doctor Layla Renning adjusted the black frames of glasses, anxiously pulling her long sweater sleeves over her hands, a nervous habit that she did often. She was young, tall, willowy blonde about 5'9, still getting adjusted to her own height. She was probably the biggest chatterbox you'd meet, not to mention the most stressed, when on her usual overload of caffeine she drank religiously, but the most dedicated person when not. She also had a thing for overreacting, because when she met Tony, she nearly passed out.

"Whoa whoa, back up. Why do you need all this stuff?" Layla folded her arms together, still getting over the shock of my sudden appearance it seemed. A more welcoming smile replaced the rest of her distressed behavior, calming down now, "It's good to see you got back from your last mission, though. How was that? Bradley said something about Italy."

I go for the drawers, finding small EMPs grenades, "Not really time to explain. I just need this stuff real quick."

She sighs, playing with the ends of her earbuds, "Authorization code?"