@johnscn
There’s just something off about fluorescent lighting and people walking around like this isn’t just another version of the same machine she’s been trapped inside for two decades. The walls are shinier, the coffee tastes less like war crimes, but the vibe? Still bureaucratic. Still power-drenched. Still bullshit. But regardless, she’s grateful to have a job again. She stares down at the files about inhuman biology in her hands like it insulted her personally. These people—inhumans—wake up one day with supercharged DNA, maybe glowing hands or laser vomit or whatever, and SHIELD’s first response is “tag ‘em and bag ‘em.”
Harcourt’s not new to the game. She’s seen this movie before, and spoiler: it ends with a vivisection table and some bastard in a lab coat saying, ‘It’s for the greater good.’ She shifts in her chair, boots propped against the edge of a briefing table that definitely wasn’t meant to support combat boots, and brows low over tired eyes. And sitting a few feet away—her superior on this assignment—is Johnson herself. The Inhuman poster girl. She closes the file with a dry fwump and looks up, sizing up Johnson like she’s about to interview her for a job she already got. “Agent Johnson?” she starts, all clipped professionalism, like someone who’s trying to be polite and failing spectacularly. She waits until she has Johnson’s attention and then tilts her head just slightly, expression somewhere between curiosity and quiet disdain. Her mouth twists into a not-quite frown, not-quite smirk.
“You’re not concerned that SHIELD is rounding up inhumans to keep tabs on them? Or, like, I don’t know—doing fucked-up experiments on them?” She lifts one eyebrow. “Maybe building a secret army of superpowered weapons? I mean, I don’t wanna project my trauma onto the situation or anything… I’m just saying,” she continues, arms folding over her chest, “I’ve done a few laps in the black-ops meat grinder. CIA, DEO, A.R.G.U.S.—you name it, I’ve been lied to by it. Hell, I spent the better part of my career watching Waller weaponize trauma like it was a fucking loyalty test.”
She pauses. Sucks her teeth. She’s trying not to sound accusatory. It’s not going great. “And yeah, I’m aware it’s a little hypocritical for me to suddenly grow a moral compass about rounding up superpowered people like they’re fucking Pokémon. But the whole thing smells familiar. Like government-grade bullshit in a prettier wrapper.” Another pause, longer this time. Her eyes narrow just slightly, not hostile, but wary. “But you’re not concerned…?”
