2012-08-15 Wisdom Comes to SHIELD

So it's a man in a suit-- not unusual as these things go. A man in a suit with a duffelbag, which isn't entirely congruous. The somewhat gallows-bound expression isn't likely to be standard fare; the deathglare given the departing plane -- RAF -- isn't normal at /all/.
"Fucking hell," the new arrival mutters to himself, patting his pockets down and taking out his cigarettes. He turns back around, lighting it and scanning for either anyone approaching or something like a giant arrow pointing to a door that says 'enter here'.
Clint isn't exactly sure how he got 'FNG' duty. First Harper, and now this, though from what the dossier suggested, this guy wasn't exactly a rook. So at least he has that going for him. Standing on the deck of the Helicarrier, Clint stands at ease and awaits for the arrival of the plane.
As he approaches, a slow bemused smirk crosses Clint's face. Ah. Agent Rough-Around-the-Edges. One of his favorites. He approaches the new agent and extends a hand, careful to extend to the non-cigarette-holding hand. "Agent Wisdom? Clint Barton, callsign Hawkeye. I was told you give you the tour." He puts on his most welcoming grin. "Welcome to SHIELD."
A funny expression crosses the Briton's face at the 'Agent'; he's grinning lopsidedly by the time Clint's finishing. Absolutely he shakes the other man's hand. "Wisdom's fine. And thanks, mate, it's good to be employed. Are you Hawkeye all the time, or only in the field?" he asks, flicking ash to the tarmac and then taking a drag, eyes caught on the archer, trying to read his stance and expression for reaction to the question.
If there is any real offense taken to the question, Clint doesn't show it, only giving a firm but short shake before his hands falling behind his back again. "Clint is fine," he says with a slight nod of his head. As traces of the cigarette cross his nose, Clint can't help but curl his nose slightly. "If I can ask, Wisdom, are you a heavy smoker?" he asks, rather bluntly.
"Variably," states Pete without any particular defensiveness; he has the grace (or more likely calculated humility) to blow the smoke away from the nonsmoker. "Not inside Whitehall. Not inside practically anywhere excepting my flat, to be perfectly fucking honest. Sometimes I think I was born too late." He shrugs the duffelbag's strap up, readjusting it on his shoulder. It doesn't bother the suit much; it's already rumpled. A hint of suspicion flickers across, behind his eyes. "Why?"
"Nothing serious," Clint says as he turns and starts to make his way towards the entrance of the carrier. "Just was going to check how close our quarters were, and if this was going to be an issue." A slight smirk crosses his lips before looking over his shoulder. "Ready for the tour?"
Is that relief? Is that, in fact, the release of a tension in the jaw, in the shoulders? Why yes, yes it is! /He can smoke on deck/. Pete half-laughs. "Oh," he says, maybe a little nonplussed. And he goes laconic, words sent to reserve in favor of paying attention. "Yeah."
Wisdom's following, yes. When Clint looks back at him, his own gaze flickers back to the archer from where he'd been looking -- which is probably just 'all around'. He manages to squeeze in a couple more drags before they get all the way to the entrance, then crushes it out in one hand before flicking it into the first bin he sees.
When your boss is Nick Fury, any smoking ban on board is going ot be ignored anyway. So might as well make it a non-issue for all involved. Clint punches in his credentials before the door slide opens, granting access to the two men, of course leading into another screening room. Taking out his badge, he gestures it towards the poor security recruit who is responsible for signing in and out agents. "Good afternoon Mr. Barton. Who is your guest?" he asks, monotone, professional.
"Pete Wisdom, call him Wisdom," Clint rattles off. "New agent, should be receiving his badge shortly." The security guard gives a silent 'oh' before nodding, taking not and granting the two agents access. Again. Thankfully, there is not a third security check, but rather a service elevator that really just highlights how mind-boggling huge the Helicarrier is. Punching in their first location, Clint leans against the far wall and makes eye contact with Wisdom. "So hate to admit it, but never got around to reading your full dossier. Heard you were MI-6, and had a secret little surprise. That true?" His tone is direct, but generally conversational.
Silent throughout -- and giving the monotone security recruit a slightly sympathetic look as they're leaving the screening area -- it's not until Clint seeks out Pete's gaze that the operative shoves himself out of his reverie, standing a little straighter even though he's still leaned against the elevator's wall. Poor Hawkeye gets himself a blank look for his troubles. "MI-6, yeah. Secret little surprise? If you mean ratting out my superiors to theirs, that explains why you've not given me any shit. Not reading it."
"I'm not asking you to give up on anyone," Clint says slowly, though that does get him to raise a brow slightly. "I was speaking more about that little quirk in your chromosomes, namely along that X-gene." He sniffs a bit, adjusting his weight slightly as he crosses his arms over his chest. "That's not a problem here, we have plenty of mutant and meta operatives. Personally? I like to know exactly who I'm working with, so I don't find someone tracking around in my mind when I don't want them to." That sounds like a very specific example. "So, to put it bluntly, you're a mutant. But what's that mean to you."
'Give up on anyone' is clearly making the rounds through a myriad of filters in Pete's brain; his brows furrow, and it's a second before his attention's fully on Clint again. He shifts his stance so he can jam his hands in his pockets, listening to the rest. There's only understanding and mildly resigned irritation, then, laid over the matter-of-fact tone he takes in response. "I have an uncommon weapon capable of leaving scorched earth in place of small towns, under the right conditions. That's all it means to me. Considering the tech SHIELD's got, it's not saying much." He frowns again, then, turning his head a little away to glance at the floor indicator, then returning his eyes to Clint. Pete's face's gone thoughtful, and he regards the other agent curiously. "I didn't think you were asking me to give up on anyone: it's just that there's a reason SIS was all too happy to get rid of me. I don't expect anyone in the community to be willing to deal with me unless they owe me. No one likes a snitch, mate."
"It means something if we can sneak you in easier than a bomb," Clint says, bluntly, but quickly drops the subject as he stands up a bit straighter, turning towards the doors of the elevator at exactly the same time as they DING open, revealing the command center of the Helicarrier. "And a piece of professional advice? Don't be a snitch," Clint says as he exits the elevator.
Here and there, SHIELD agents, each dressed in matching, skin-tight navy blue uniforms hustle about, each carrying data between points. "This is the brain, the soul and the heart of SHIELD. Here is where we are able to pull information from all of our agents in the field, compile that information and create plans of action for the future. When we comlink with various other agencies?" He points towards a projected screen hanging in mid-air. "Bam, right up there. That spot up there? For the big boss man. If you stand there, don't make it long unless you want an old-school ass-whooping. Consider that your first survival tip for SHIELD: don't get in Fury's way."
No comment; obviously no comment. Wisdom takes Clint's second sentence as noncommittally as his first, and shoves off the wall to follow again. In front of other people-- specifically, multiple other people at once-- the Englishman keeps a professional look of polite interest on his face, clearly paying attention. "Good survival tip," he notes at the end. "It's pretty standard worldwide. Not getting in Fury's way and la." The preponderance of navy blue has not escaped his notice, either; his gaze tracks someone who passes by them, then falls to Clint's outfit for a second before it goes back to the room at large, as they progress. "Hard to sneak a bomb in if it's wearing a uniform."
"The uniforms are for the floor," Clint explains. "In the field? Carrying a badge is considered a liability. Here, certain level of uniformity is worth keeping. Remind us we're all on the same team." He glances towards the hurry and scurry around them before glancing back towards Wisdom with a slight nod of his head. "That is assuming, we are on the same team," he says pointedly. "So I suppose I should ask. Why are you here, Wisdom? Other than SIS sent you with your tail between your legs."
"I'm on the same team," says Pete bluntly, "as long as the team's got accountability." His hand twitches for the pocket with the cigarettes in, then drops back down as he's talking. "Officially, I was commended. That's in the dossier, too. Unofficially, my choices were 'fatal accident' or 'get your fucking face out of this country', and the latter I only got because I *do* still have allies." Even with the cursing, there's still no heat to the rumpled ex-SIS man's voice, or even bearing. His one hand just hangs to the side; his other rests atop the duffelbag slung across his shoulder. "I'm here to do whatever needs doing. I don't know what sort of answer you're looking for."
Clint purses his lips at that answer, but slowly nods his head. "I'm looking for the answer that tells me you're a man willing to save the world," he says solemnly. "And not going to get too bogged down in governmental politics to keep from doing the right thing, even if it's not the easy thing." He shrugs his shoulders slowly. "Honestly, Wisdom? I couldn't give two squirts of piss about where you came from, how you got here or what credentials and accomodations you come with. Right now? Right here? All I care about is if you're willing to save the world, no matter the cost. Do you copy?"
Doug isn't entirely sure why the bridge crew on the Argus wear the SHIELD bodysuit uniforms rather than a plain old suit and tie. Probably because it doesn't feel awesomely sci fi-y enough, or something. Whatever the case, he is dressed appropriately when he steps off the lift and makes his way towards one of the monitoring stations on the bridge for his shift, like a good little trainee. Thanks to Xavier's, he's more comfortable in this thing than he thinks he'll ever be in a tie. Whatever. Run with it.
As Doug settles into the seat recently vacated by the agent he's relieving, his nose twitches a bit. Smoke. He quirks a bit and looks over his shoulder as he pulls his headset on, and offers a slightly questioning wave towards Clint and Pete. Well, no cigarette in sight right /now/, so that's good. He doesn't think Widow would like smoking on the bridge and she can be scary.
"--shit," says the Briton with a surprised laugh, hooking both thumbs around the strap across his chest, letting his arms hang there. "Sorry. You get into a mindset--" And then he cuts himself off, shaking his head and looking wry. He glances toward Doug coming in, then focuses, makes eye contact with Clint this time. "Yeah. I am, and do. But that's what governments are meant for; that's what SHIELD is for. Believe me, mate, I know shitheels can join up with ulterior motives if they're good enough to hide it-- but those are the fucks I have a habit of pulling the alarm on. Yes, I'm willing."
Wisdom watches Doug sit down, wave tentatively; he lifts an elbow in acknowledgment, or return greeting. Hard to tell the difference. And then he says to Hawkeye in a low voice, "Whatever the cost."
Suddenly, Doug thinks it's a good thing his headset is wireless. He gives his screen a quick look to make sure he hasn't overlooked anything before he gets to his feet, dutifully crossing the distance between himself and the pair, who he has totally not been eavesdropping on. No siree. He has /official/ eavesdropping to do. "Yessir?" So polite.
"Right," says Pete, eyeing Clint sidelong, one corner of his mouth turning down in the suppression of a smirk. "Tip: Don't even grope them if they're hot-looking, mate. You come back with souvenirs." And then he shifts, turning with the inertia and momentum of the duffelbag hindering him; he extends a hand to the blond man. "Agent Wisdom," he introduces himself dryly. "I think your time's been appropriated. Sorry."
"Not an issue, one of these bastards already tried to kill me," Clint mutters before turning towards Agent Ramsey, offering a short salute. "Ramsey, this is the charming Pete Wisdom. He's not new to the field, but he's new to our outfit. Your duty, as of now, is to make sure that he feels comfortable; answer any questions he might have, within reason." Then, towards Wisdom. "This is Douglas Ramsey, languages expert and all-around boy genius. He also happens to be a mutant. So you two have that in common." Yep, because those are all the same. "I hope to see you around, Pete. Drop by my quarters any time if you want a drink and someone to trade war stories with. Just keep the smokes in your own quarters." A short salute later and Clint is off, briskly, to take that call.
Doug looks suitably bewildered in the wake of Hurricane Clint, so he settles for just blinking owlishly and reaching out to give Pete's offered hand a shake. Boy genius? Maybe he needs to grow a beard. "Nice to meet you, sir," he manages, giving himself a quick mental shake to re-engage his brain. Right. "Welcome aboard. It's really okay, I'm just monitoring the comms right now. Unless something explodes, I'm fine for multi-tasking," he notes with a smile.
A quick inclination of the head rather than a return salute, in the wake of that outgoing storm-- and then Wisdom's blinking at *Doug*. Not so much owlishly: a startled laugh goes with it. "'Sir', he says," the ex-Crown-agent says in amazement. "I'm not the boss of you, Ramsey." Another hand-twitch toward pocket; Doug can undoubtedly tell from the unconscious nature that it's habitual, and probably goes hand-in-hand with the smell of tobacco smoke that clings to Pete like a shroud. "Obliged, though. Barton was giving me a tour; I figure I'll do all right with a map and a mobile. And an escort to the mess."
"Nah, but you're older, and I was raised to be polite," Doug replies with a grin. His brow does furrow slightly when he notices the hand twitch and after a moment's thought, he turns to flag another agent down and offer them his headset. He can repay them for the relief with lunch or something. "You'll get a bunch of gadgets with your kit, once you're settled. Mine were waiting for me in my quarters," he muses thoughtfully, waving towards the lift before he starts that way himself. "The food in the mess is actually not horrible. I was pleasantly surprised."
"Gadgets," repeats Wisdom painedly, grimacing. "I'm fucking *terrible* with that lot." As he follows Doug back to the lift, he ducks his head and slings the strap around his neck to his other shoulder, wrestling his other arm through. "Suppose you're only ever as old as you feel," he says absently, shifting his jacket around as he steps into the lift and then moves to lean against the wall inside. "Anyroad. As long as it's not vegetarian and there's a /lot/ of it, I could give two tugs whether or not it's horrible. In fact, if any of it's actively healthy, you can have mine."
"Vegetarian stuff is labelled for easy dodging, I promise," Doug says with a laugh, prodding a key on the lift's console on his way in. Once the doors whisk shut, he loosely folds his arms to wait out the short ride. "Worst case scenario, there are some great diners down below. You can get a proper greasy burger and a milkshake that you need to eat with a spoon without too much trouble."
There's a HUGE EXHALATION of relief; Pete sags against the wall and claps his hand to his forehead, pushing his hair out of his face. "Oh thank God," the field agent says fervently. "When Barton started talking about quarters..." He waves his other hand in the air between them, dismissing the worry symbolically. "I started wondering what the fuck I'd got myself into this time. I'm not much good for anything if I can't get in the middle of everything. Christ. Callsigns. And uniforms." Up-and-down on Doug again as the lift's stopping, and Pete shoves his hands in his pockets, swinging the bag to the back. "Could be worse. Could be bright."
"At least it's not yellow," Doug agrees, grinning sympathetically as he steps off the lift. Behold. CAFETERIA. "There are flying cars -- which, can I just say, are stupidly cool -- that can run you down to the city if you're feeling too cooped up in here. As long as you show up when you're needed, it seems to be fine. I try to get out once a day so I don't start turning into a cavedweller, though as caves go, a giant hovercraft is pretty high on the list of cool ones."
The rumpled, messy-haired Englishman, bony and tall enough, has a look on his face like he's a Man At War With Himself. Because on the one hand, Doug has a very good point about coolness. On the other hand-- the other side of the argument wins out, and Pete grimaces slightly. "Feels like a target. And yellow? Yeah-- s'pose I'm glad this crate hasn't got a big X on its underside. But brilliant. I'm getting a flat downstairs." 'Downstairs', in context, pretty obviously meaning 'in the City'. "Oh, right, you have a drinking age here. You old enough?"
No comment on the X or lack thereof. Doug is absolutely not grinning about that, no siree. "Twenty-one, yes. I am." Though he is still getting used to that fact. As far as he can remember, a couple months back, he was still a teenager. Stupid death. Stupid resurrection. /Whatever/. "I can't help with directions to any good bars yet, I'm afraid. Though I'd have a horrible, American opinion of what made for a good bar anyway," he notes apologetically. "Agent Romanov might be able to help there, unless a round of recon was more fun as a matter of principle."
"... she's -here-?" Pete gapes, eyes locking on Doug's eyes instantly. His face is edging from incredulity to fanboy with embarrassing rapidity. "I'd do recon with her /any/ day," he says admiringly, then lifts an arm to clap Doug's back, grip his shoulder briefly in presumed solidarity. "Yeah all right. But that's what a pubcrawl's for. You introduce me to Agent Romanov and I'll take you on one, mate. Now, calories."
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