2012-08-29 A Most Gossamer Focus

Most super-hero teams extend invitations to join them for something-or-other. There are over-the-top parties and soirees and functions, and even an invitation to stop by to talk is an engraved thing worthy of being framed. Odds are good that somewhere, someone at some Museum of Modern Art is putting together a retrospective of Captain America’s business cards. It’s all kitsch engaged in a life-or-death battle with its own struggle to be more than kitsch.
SHIELD has none of this. SHIELD isn’t a super-hero outfit like the Avengers. No, SHIELD is a bureaucracy, and they never let anyone forget it. First, Sentinalia’s creator wasn’t invited to show up to Nick Fury’s office. Instead, last year an obscure United Nations bureaucracy put out a bid seeking independent consulting services in the field of applied robotics. This agency collected resumes and bids for services, then the bureaucracy got absorbed by another bureaucracy and everyone’s paperwork got lost in the shuffle. Phone calls went straight into voice mail hell: the people who were originally soliciting those bids were never heard from again, were totally inaccessible, vanished into the bureaucratic ether as if they didn’t even exist.
This morning it all became clear: the bid wasn’t for the U.N. Committee for the Preservation of Wildlife Fisheries looking to develop new technologies for automatically monitoring tuna populations, but ...
... well. That entire thing was a front for SHIELD, meant so they could solicit bids and review applicants without anyone having any idea they were under consideration.
This morning a SHIELD bureaucrat called to inform Sentinalia’s creator that his bid had been accepted, and he was scheduled for a meeting with Director Fury in two hours: would that be acceptable, or...?
(There was no "you will do this or else," mind you. SHIELD isn’t quite that arrogant. Nor is the Director’s ego so fragile that he considers any delay to be a slight to his ego. His ego is the size of a small planet, thank you: he can take a delay.)
At any rate. Once the meeting was scheduled, SHIELD sent a driver out to pick up said inventor. One ride to a SHIELD base later, one trip up the Skycable to the Helicarrier above, Sentinalia’s creator finds himself escorted into a simple, metal office. The Director of SHIELD sits behind his desk, an unlit cigar in the tray in front of him.
"Hey," the Director greets with a somewhat affable grumble. "Who the hell are you?"
A voice buzzes through the intercom: "Director, this is your next appointment. Keyword ‘Gossamer Focus.’"
"Oh," the Director answers, finally rising from his chair. "A pleasure to meet you. What is it -- Doctor? Professor? Welcome to Gossamer Focus."
Dr. Thiago Varconcelez is a man used to bureaucracy. He’s had some seventy years or so to get used to it. He comes from Brazil, after all, from a wealthy family. Where the bureaucracy is thick and slow, nearly impenetrable to the brightest of minds, where it’s all but impossible to get anything done in a timely fashion without bribing someone. Even so many decades later, with most of his family gone, and years of philanthropy, his old nouveau aristocratic upbringing finds him itching, after putting in the bid, to go looking for palms to grease... But then, that sort of arrogance was the reason he left behind his old life, in the first place. Besides, the U.N. were the good guys, right? Right?
Well, he’s having his doubts right now. Everyone has been ultra polite to him, after all. Even so, he finds himself fingering the little recess in the marble head of his cane, thumb rubbing over the button concealed in it. He knows his creation would come for him if called, correct? After all, he has his own arrogance, believing she could rescue him, even here... Did he not fashion her, ever so lovingly? His very own Pygmalion?
Still, he sets down his little briefcase, leans on the cane, and sticks a hand out towards the Director. As to the ‘who the hell are you’ question? He merely shrugs. Much like the Director, his ego is of sufficient size to support itself. Creating life does that to a man. "Dr. Thiago Varconcelez. At your service. Gossamer Focus, eh?"
He is quiet for a moment, then he finally responds in a droll tone, "You’ll excuse me if, perhaps I observe that your... ‘setup’ seems poorly designed for the observation of aquatic populations, yes?"
A man that basically looks like your average anonymous suit-wearing government agent slips into the office silently behind the doctor, nonthreatening in bearing, carrying a tablet and stylus. Not the Roman kind. He gives a pleasant nod of acknowledgement if Varconcelez looks at him, but doesn’t offer any interruption other than his entrance; he takes up a position to one side of Fury’s desk, clearly readying himself to be useful.
"Agent Wisdom. I know you don’t have a good excuse for being late, and I guess I’m an old softie who doesn’t have the heart to make you come up with a bad one." The Director’s tone would be considered droll humor, if one were to be daring enough to try and interpret it in such a way. When one is in the same room as someone who’s snapped more necks in one career than motorcycle accidents have in the last five years, well, sometimes people get too unsettled to laugh.
The Director sits back down in his chair, gesturing for his two guests to pull up seats themselves. "Doctor, this is Agent Pete Wisdom. He has terrible taste in cigarettes, questionable taste in booze, and during SHIELD’s last performance review scored in the lowest eighth of all agents." He looks down at his tablet for a moment, taps it a couple of times, and then -- "Correction. Lowest ninth. But I urge you to ignore that. It’s always seemed to me that no inspection-ready soldier is ever combat-ready, and no combat-ready soldier should ever be allowed in the same ZIP code as a rear-echelon #$&(*!&$!# who’d give his own infant son’s diaper a white glove inspection." He pauses for a moment, then helpfully adds: "I actually had a CO like that, in 1943."
Then, looking back and forth between the two: "Gentlemen, Gossamer Focus is a classified project, clearance level one. That’s not very classified, but still keep it under your hats. Gossamer Focus is meant to shore up some serious holes that SHIELD has in its intelligence regarding various forms of advanced robotics. It will be an ongoing research project delivering its reports to me, and to me alone. Doctor, you will be the technical lead on this, and Agent Wisdom’s job will be to serve as your liaison with SHIELD. Some of the people you will be tasked to gather intel on, well -- they might not like it very much if they were to find out what you’re up to. Doctor, I have absolutely no qualm with ordering Agent Wisdom into harm’s way, but you’re a civilian and I need to show some respect and courtesy to you. Also, you’re kind of almost as old as I am, so I feel I should be extra double special nice. If you want to walk out that door right now and say ‘no’ to this project, you can. No harm, no foul. But if you tell me you’re in, then you’re in all the way. You will be the brains: Agent Wisdom will be your brawn. Or, to put it into an idiom that probably only you and I are old enough to understand, you’re Nero Wolfe, and he’s your Archie Goodwin. So, Doctor. Are you in?"
Dr. Varconcelez is quiet for a time, in no hurry to answer. Apparently he’s decided that with his advanced age, he’s really under no obligation to hurry. He leans down to snap open his briefcase. From this, he removes a tablet computer and a small box, which he sets on the desk.
"Sigaro toscano. Help yourself. They’re not Cubans, undoubtedly over-priced, but better than most government salarymen can honestly afford." He even reaches out with his cane, like a crotchety old man to poke at Wisdom’s leg. "You too, son. Don’t trust a man who won’t smoke when a deal’s being done." The Doctor begins to sort his smoking accessories, meanwhile. "I am sure we can come to an arrangement. My CFO will handle the particulars, but I assume we both understand what we each expect of the deal. For my part, exorbitant prices and assurances, a garauntee that this is nothing that will make me unable to sleep at night, and for you... A fortress, a blood hound, a treasure trove of knowledge. Yes?"
At his own leisurely pace, he goes on. "I feel I owe America and its allies a great debt, you see. You can be assured then, that because the U.N.’s interests are in the best interest of my country, you will still get more than you expect, and more than you pay for." He even drags out a small box of matches, which he offers up, "I like Americans. Director, you are American, yes? Americans. So direct. In the land of my birth, we would be discussing our families and the weather still, an hour from now. How tiresome. It is one of many reasons I love America." He selects a cigar of his own and begins to examine it. "So I suppose I am in. I do have two questions, though. Who is our Arnold Zeck, and would you like to meet Lily Rowan?"
The old man gazes at Wisdom dubiously, and then says, "They do not feed you much, do they?"
"Sir," acknowledges Wisdom when Fury calls him out on his lateness, and his eyebrows lift ever so slightly, but that’s all. When the Director indicates they should take seats, he waits until the doctor has; once he has, he rests his own tablet on his knee. He shifts in his chair a little when Fury brings up performance reviews, and then suppresses a smirk at what follows it.
There’s precious little else in the way of reaction from the man -- he doesn’t even look dubious at ‘brawn.’ He does look confused at the ‘Archie Goodwin’ bit -- he’s obviously far too young for the references, and is probably thinking of publishers. When the cigars come out, his gaze flickers toward Fury, gauging -- waiting to see if the Director does, in fact, partake. There’s finally a solid reaction, though, because the young man’s crooked grin as he absolutely takes one (whether or not it’ll get lighted now, it’s destined to the slow-burning doom of his own enjoyment) is directed toward the good doctor. "Thank you, sir."
Scratch one American off the list; Wisdom’s very obviously English, by the accent. The last question earns a grin that isn’t even crooked, though. "Actually, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s food budget increased by three percent when I joined, sir. I just burn a lot of calories."
"Oh, you misunderstand me, doctor. I’m sorry. I should’ve made it clear: I only got Gossamer Focus pushed through the bureaucracy today. You won’t actually have any office space aboard the Helicarrier, or a staff, or even a Helicarrier library card, until at least Christmas. So that means that until then, the two of you are on your own. You’ll be expected to hit the ground running come Christmas. But not until then."
Fury reaches towards the small humidor then, opening and taking a cigar. "Thank you, senhor," he offers as he pulls out his car keys. Yes, there’s a cigar cutter on it. A snip later and he has his most trusted Zippo out, touching it to life 1940s-style -- no fancy-pants butane torches for him.
"Kind of a shame," Fury muses as he blows a ring skywards. The Zippo and cutter are placed on the desk, slid over towards Wisdom. "There are all manner of people I’d like to get reports on. The world’s full of shady characters. People I don’t fully trust, people I think are hiding things from me. And even when I do get reports, well -- I’m not one of these Reed Richards big-brain types. These guys filing reports, telling me all about these technologies, they could be filling their briefs with dialog they cribbed from Star Trek and I’d never know the difference. Yes, that’s the reason why I’m pushing Gossamer Focus through. And come Christmas, I’m sure I’ll have official taskings for you."
Is there a faint emphasis on the word ‘official’? Maybe.
He gives a shrug then and lifts a copy of People magazine that’s sitting on his desk. On the cover is a glossy picture of Tony Stark, in the news again for one escapade or another. He looks down at it, then holds it up towards the two guests. "I swear, I don’t read these rags," he mumbles, making sure that they can see the cover, and the fact his index finger is pointing right at Tony Stark. "Cleaning staff must’ve dropped it in here or something," he mutters as he tosses it into the wastebin.
Dr. Varconcelez examines the front of the magazine as he clips and lights his own cigar. A few puffs here and there. "Oh, of course, Director. I understand. It’s just as well. One of the heads of industry in my field... I’ve been looking to tempt him with some market-analysis software, you know? I’ve got this wonderful little AI that collates data like you wouldn’t believe! Tracks expenses, input and output of money, resources, and materials, inventory control, business projections... Truly, it’s something of a wonder. It will certainly keep me busy until December or so. Since you won’t have any work with me until then, you won’t mind if I take this young man and get him... up to speed on my current operating procedures, I hope? Don’t worry, though, Director. I will not forget you. In fact, I can think of the perfect Christmas present."
Varconcelez takes a few puffs, then taps Wisdom on the leg with his cane a bit, relaxing. "You shall coordinate with my daughter, friend. She, too, needs some business orientation, and I think it will benefit her to work with you. Do you have any objections to this my young, hungry friend?" He smiles at the Director. "Keep the tablet. As a gift. It’s linked to my personal intranet. Sentinet. Yes, Director, I think you will enjoy Christmas this year."
On the sly -- while, of course, still listening, and watching -- Wisdom’s slid his (considerably less impressive) tablet around on his knee, pocketing his stylus. When the cigar paraphernalia gets moved across the desk, he clips and lights the thing with an incredibly self-satisfied air. HE IS SMOKING IN NICK FURY’S OFFICE. And then while Fury and the good doctor are continuing to discuss the near future in an amusingly (though no doubt necessarily) clandestine manner, he surreptitiously Googles ‘Archie Goodwin.’ Then ‘Archie Goodwin Nero Wolfe,’ which finally comes up with someone who neither publishes comics nor plays sports.
Finally, when he’s tapped on the leg with the cane, he glances up and takes the cigar out of his mouth, blinking. "Of course not, sir. It’ll be a pleasure. I only hope you don’t expect me to actually understand any of the technology involved-- I’m afraid you may have to resort to labeling things with alphabet refrigerator magnets."
As for the Director, well... he makes it a point to Pointedly Not Notice Agent Wisdom. After all, if he were to notice Agent Wisdom he would have to harass him about smoking, and that would make him a hypocrite, therefore he must not notice Agent Wisdom, and since Nick Fury is incapable of not noticing things it must simply be the case that Agent Wisdom is not actually here. A Life Model Decoy instead, yes, perhaps. And since LMDs are not ‘personnel,’ they are clearly not covered under the smoking ban, so all’s well.
The Director takes a few deep puffs on the sigaro toscano, clearly enjoying the complex flavors of the stogie. "Nice," he offers after a moment. "Opens like a $&(*!# atomic bomb, mellows out to notes of chocolate and pepper. I’ve smoked a lot worse. Che Guevara, now... there’s a guy who smoked $&(*@ for stogies. But Kennedy kept a pretty nice humidor in the Oval Office. You know that right before signing the trade embargo on Cuba he sent Pierre Salinger to Shelly’s and W.C. Draper’s in order to buy out all their stock of Cubans? Salinger rolled right on up to the White House with boxes of cigars filling up his car, I hear it was real comedic-like. Couple of days later Kennedy calls me up, asks me what I think about getting five thousand Cubans, and there I was telling him that no, it wasn’t quite like that, I didn’t know where he was getting that number. He affirmed, five thousand, five thousand Cubans! We got five thousand Cubans, Nick! And I told him, no, Mr. President, Castro’s got about twelve hundred of *us*. And then, like, five minutes into this conversation, we realize I’m talking about the Bay of Pigs and he’s talking about Romeo y Julieta..."
He lets the sentence trail off, shakes his head no, then blows another smoke ring skywards. "Good man, President Kennedy was. Good man."
Dr. Varconcelez reaches out to depress the recess on his cane’s head gently for a prolonged moment. That’s a ‘stand down’ order for his ‘daughter.’ "You know, that is the one thing I missed about Rio, my friend. It was very easy to get Cuban cigars. Kennedy, though... You know, he had an argument with his wife the day he was shot? He never wanted to wear his back brace. She nagged him into it. The second shot would’ve knocked him over, and the third likely would’ve missed. He might’ve been saved. A monument to every man who claimed his wife would nag him to death." He raises his cigar, "To Kennedy!"
The old man chuckles, while eyeing Nick for a moment, "You look young for your age, Director. Drop by sometime, I’ll treat you to a bottle of single malt. We can discuss old times." He turns her gaze on Wisdom, then. "Young man... Field agents are never the sort to understand ‘the technology involved’. Because those that do are more valuable in labs or think tanks. No. You are an agent because you have skills that are either not of value in the lab, or much more valuable in the field. You’ll be briefed on anything you need to know. Tell me, do you have your pilot’s license?"
There: There’s the relaxation. The tension in Wisdom’s shoulders is only marked by its absence, but the change is abrupt and obviously a reaction: the assurance that an orientation into the business won’t involve a final exam on technobabble is evidently an immense relief. He shuts down the tablet’s screen again and gives Varconcelez a quick nod. "Yes sir. NAA and CAA only; I haven’t got a certification in the United States yet. Commercial privilege, aeroplane single-engine land and rotorcraft." Not a word about old people. Not a word not a word this is a wonderful cigar not a word this is a wonderful job not a fucking WORD Wisdom...
The Director takes another few puffs on his cigar, momentarily lost in his reminiscing. His heart is a graveyard, and a century of friends and family are interred within. The worst ones are not the famous ones, but the ones that only he himself will ever remember -- because there have been so many he cannot remember them all, and don’t they deserve better?
"$#*$*) Oswald," he says definitively after a moment. "$&*($ him right in the $&(#$! eye."
He gives himself a brief shake, then rises from his desk to indicate the meeting is adjourned. His hand moves out to the tablet the good doctor indicated he’d leave behind, looking over it briefly before setting it in Fury’s inbox to be looked at in the near future. "Gentlemen. I hate to interrupt a good woolgathering session, but I’ve a schedule to keep. Here at SHIELD, Doctor, our job is simple: every day we save the world." There’s a pause and a heartbeat of silence, then -- "There are an embarrassing amount of meetings involved. Good day to you, gentlemen."
"Good, Agent Wisdom. Don't get me wrong, my daughter is an amazing pilot, but I’m an old man. My bones don’t always take so well to aerial acrobatics, especially in the helicopter, and she’s a bit daring, you see. We’ll see about getting you a few more certifications. Tell me... do you have familiarity with the use and fire of directed energy weapons? I--" And then Fury is talking again. He stifles a chuckle at the profanity and reaches out to shake Fury’s hand as he rises. "Keep the cigars. A gift between associates, yes? You save the world, and I like living in the world. Also... thank you for that last bit. I was wondering if you were going to say that with a straight face. Seriously, though. For those of us not born under the aegis of peace, know your efforts are appreciated, Director."
As he turns to Wisdom, expecting the man to show him out, "You know, you work for a genuine world hero, young man. You must spend most of your day constantly in awe." Or possibly confused. He’s not sure, but he’s giving Wisdom the benefit of the doubt. The man works for SHIELD after all. That’s supposed to mean something, right?
There is so much no-commenting from Wisdom on the entire Kennedy business -- (old people old people OLD PEOPLE almost as bad as Captain goddamn Midlands and his goddamn supersoldier piles goddamn) -- not only because he likes his job and his lack of freefall but because Fury and Varconcelez are both still smoking their cigars and he would like to get out of there with his intact and still burning. He starts to lead the doctor out, smiling slightly; somewhere in there the tablet got stuck in his jacket pocket, making the thing hang somewhat awkwardly off his bony shoulders. "Awe, terror -- when you get right down to it, sir, in my experience, there’s a fine and jagged line. They both involve rather a lot of adrenaline." And then his voice is trailing off as they go through the door, cigar smoke in their wake. "And I’m a fair hand with anything you can aim and pull a trigger on, but I’m the only directed energy weapon I've ever employed..."
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