#russianbrooklyner

When one of the darling women at SHIELD had recommended this place to him, he hadn't thought he'd get these strange looks.

He was wearing those headphones which muffled noise so much he couldn't hear himself talk properly anymore. He was bright enough not to yell, but instead uncover one ear as he talks.

He did not care much for these pistols the humans seem to have replaced bow and arrow with. Since they still offer these to train, he joyfully accepts them. He had quickly noticed however that the targets are far too close to properly challenge him. 

If he wanted he could split arrow upon arrow, which he did for a while until he got bored with it and asked if moving the targer further back was allowed.

And if Fandral weren't so proud of himself he'd feel insecure with so many people staring at him - subtly. He's sure if he were to look over his shoulder they would all scuttle to look occupied.

Intrigued by the fact that the Cosmic Cube known as the Tesseract had been used for teleportation, Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. directed its various sensory instruments towards the location of the portal’s mouth after it had collapsed. Evidence was found of unidentified scalars (tentatively called “tesserons”) forming a precise ring that corresponds to the widest observed circumference of the portal.

Background

Macroscopic observations indicate that the Tesseract’s power was used as a stabilizing shell holding open the event horizons of an achronal space-like interval of unknown (possibly arbitrary) length, creating a Lorentzian traversable wormhole. These observations, combined with the quantum-scale evidence, suggest that the Tesseract was able to create Planck-length excitations of a heretofore unobserved quantum field in order to produce negative-mass exotic matter. This means that the energy from Cosmic Cubes is the 4-dimensional manifestation of hyperspacial physical processes normally undetectable in our worldbrane.

If this is true, it indicates that what we consider to be the ‘fundamental laws of physics’ are merely excitations caused by extradimensional forces and that they can be changed. However, before dedicating anything to further research, Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S. has requested on-site sample analysis from a port town international Intelligence indicates was also once witness to a wormhole 70 years ago: Dieppe, France.   

Dieppe Raid

At 5 a.m. on August 19, 1942, over 6,000 Allied soldiers participated in the catastrophic Dieppe Raid, ending in almost 60% of the force being killed, wounded or captured. None of the objectives of this attempted surprise attack were met; instead, the attackers were themselves surprised by an utterly unanticipated counterstrike from German defense forces. Shell-shocked witnesses described several variations of the same story: German soldiers kept on coming as if from the fog itself.

The idea that the Tesseract had been used to open a portal at Dieppe’s chert beach came about shortly after initial analyses of the cube’s power, which matched up with qualitative electronic intelligence gathered by the international team tasked with the ‘Enigma Pinch’ operation, but there had never been any way to trace its use as such before now.

 Computational models of the “tesserons” show that they are unable to dissipate in our universe; thus this distinctive ring pattern should be detectable at the Dieppe portal’s Ground Zero. Finding Ground Zero would be an arduous trial-and-error process for someone without intimate knowledge of the battlefield layout.

Luckily, The Avengers have the Winter Soldier. Due to the loss of Steve Rogers, fellow Avenger Rogue has been requested to accompany Winter Soldier to Dieppe with him.

Mission:

Travel to Dieppe, France. Using what can be recalled of the movement of German forces, identify best possible locations for the portal to have been. Use provided portable technology to scan these areas for tesserons and report any anomalies. Use caution to remain undetectable as it is unknown if other organizations have yet reached the same conclusions as Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S.

We're setting up comms at 1800 hours. Don't be late.

---

They were on the road. That much, she could tell. In the back of her consciousness, the stench of vomit and gas was overpowering, and her own body was shaking with the effort of dry-retching. One girl had fouled herself, sobbing and babbling in Bulgarian that she did not care to understand through the mind of her current host.

In the mind of Zlatomir Ivanov, Anja seethed.

He stood in the dim light of the Gostinitsa Dnipro, cigarette smoke pouring out of his nostrils while his memories came to her, imprinting the names of all of his men and associates in her consciousness. Having practiced so long against Danger, his mind seemed almost too easy to infiltrate, to silence as she assumed control of his body.

So far, the mission had not gone according to plan. Anja's job was to scout the museum, taking possession of a couple of officials long enough to ascertain any and all details pertinent to the mission. Inside the building, she had been taken by two of Ivanov's men, who had knocked her out and taken her to their boss when they found her suspicious. She had woken up to Ivanov inspecting her, dirty fingers pushing her mouth open, a dark smile contorting his features.

She'd had him in a flash, and proceeded to spend the next hour punishing subordinates for failures and appeasing those of his victims who he'd gotten addicted to his drugs. He was devoid of emotion. He moved through the motions of his work with a simple hum of contentment that would have sickened Anja were she in her body. The uncommonly pretty group made his orders to not touch them plausible, but Anja could do nothing about the smirks that passed between the soldiers as she left with his body.

---

Tendrils of smoke floated through the air, dissipating into the crisp night air. The end of the cigarette flared red for the last time before he flicked it from his fingers and crushed the butt beneath a newly clean black dress shoe. The short, stocky frame belied his agility and grace as he walked into the building, his men standing guard outside. He walked straight to the elevators, Anja's room key and personal possessions tucked into his pockets and on his person.

Time: 17:45

He pushed the button for the fifth floor, examining his reflection in the metal doors. Of all of the masculine bodies that Anja had possessed, this one felt the most unnatural to wear. She felt pinched, trapped into a costume that she could not remove until the mission was done.

And even as the elevator lifted him up, she could feel her body moving further away.

His heels clicked on the floor beneath him as she strode down the hall, eyes scanning the walls as numbers popped out at him. All numbers of rooms his girls held. With a careful knock, he unlocked the door and pushed the door open, hand on Anja's gun in case the others were not so eager to greet him.

It would, of course, have been preferable for Harry not to have had to worry about cleaning up after his father’s mess. After all, when Norman did anything, it was generally spectacular, and in this case it was an absolutely spectacular mess he’d made. He was safely locked away—for now—but that hardly meant that there was going to be any reparation on his part. No, reparation would mean that he was wrong and Norman would never admit to that. Being wrong was for other people. Like his deadbeat son who couldn’t seem to get his act together and do things the way Norman had done them.

But that didn’t mean that reparations didn’t have to be made, apologies given. People had died because of what his father had done and even as Harry’s mind made excuses for his father, taking note that he wasn’t completely at fault—after all, the man had raised him and espoused his philosophies to him for two and a half decades—he knew it was time to make appearance, try to start making things right. As right as they could get after this. Nothing could change what had happened, but there were still things could be done, even on this late date. Reparations could be given, apologies made, and it only made sense to do it in person.

Harry’d had a scheduled meeting earlier that morning in order to talk about what could officially be done. He had his father’s assets under his control while he was put away, and had been able to make certain gestures. Of course, none of it felt like it was enough. Press conferences and monetary gifts had been accepted and appreciated, but it didn’t matter on a grand scale. If losing his father to insanity and incarceration was any clue into the hearts and minds of those who had truly lost, he understood all too well that it was near folly to think that any hollow tokens he had been giving were of no use. There was more to be done.

There were those who held the belief within the confines of delicate hands that there was no such thing as an accident. It was the majority of those people who neglected to acknowledge it was the same dexterous digits which safeguarded their principles that could similarly morph it to suit their own needs; to make things happen. Father Time, the accepting man, was known for allowing both humanity and those in neighbouring realms limitless opportunities within a span of a day; it would only disappoint him if one failed to notice what he laid out, despite directions from the wind that swirled around them, as though the element desperate to highlight to those around it what was before them in abundance.

The Enchantress had always been the latter.

It had been planned for the sturdy frame which guided the Roosevelt tram to falter; the treacherous screws falling from their delegated place in the well oiled machine, concealed by the well-timed explosion, the tram tilting sharply like an unbalanced see saw as those within were tossed within the metal box as though nothing more than dolls. The doors parted as though sliding away from one another in a synchronised dance, though in reality were pried apart by the invisible hand of Asgardian magic, itching digits yearning to hear the screams of terror that were contained within, the unseen appendages giving a final shove before integrating with the afternoon air.

The number of people who fell were irrelevant, the conductor content to believe they would fall for a reason, despite the futile efforts at maintaining a hold upon the tram car. The satisfying splash below curling the lip of one onlooker upward.as though content in the certainty provided by the inevitable; in the knowledge that everything happened for a reason. The harsh gasps as they resurfaced the bone chilling embrace contrasting sharply with the whimpers and screams from those who remained in the dangerously dangling car above, limbs flailing in an attempt to find an anchor with which to steady themselves from being carried away on the wave of the current.

The police had been called, the silent sirens flashing unnecessarily as though trying to compete with the sunlight, only acknowledging they were out of their depth once they had seen the extent of what was occurring. One who had grown bored of his colleagues refusal to accept that this was beyond their jurisdiction, had -with a roll of his eyes- picked up his phone and requested help from the Avengers (though no more than two, he had said, they didn't need to add to the scene that was already being enacted). The crowd waited, watching, wondering when the heroes would appear to help for it shouldn't have been too long.

Above; it appeared that the wind grew impatient as it fiddled with the remaining bolts that held the tram car in place. Below; the sea cooed coaxing words as though asking those in the carriage to come join their fallen comrades. It had seemed the Enchantress, upon Father Time's behest, had taken the opportunities of those who had opted to use the tram that day into her own bony fingers as the resonating clank clink clank clink echoed though out the air as though the bolts were loosening themselves in a synchronised rhythm, one which was sickly sweet in reminding the onlookers that they must make haste in acting, or hope harder that their heroes would;