Thou Shalt Consider When To Kill

February 25, 2016:

Joe, Shift, and Cap discuss the Avenger code on killing

Fort Kirby

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

The roaring of a motorcycle announces a new arrival at Fort Kirby. Kwabena pulls the bike up to a park and drops the kickstand, before climbing off and collecting a large duffle bag from where it's been strapped to the ass end of the Harley. Slinging it over his shoulder, the plain-clothed merc begins trodding toward a supply shelf, empty, not far from where his bike is parked. Once there, he drops it to the ground with a heavy sound; guns. Definitely and without a doubt, guns.

Steve is seated in the small office where Hawkes has set up shop. He's got a cheat sheet out on the desk that he seems to be following closely as he is teaching himself some strategies on researching using web browsers. It's amazing what you can find on this internet thing. For free. The world is a very different place these days.

Joe Fixit has been playing poker with a few of the grunts, clad in a wife beater, camo pants, and a couple of gold chains. He has a cigar in his mouth (are YOU going to tell him not to smoke?) and a significant pile of chips on his side. He tosses down his cards, the grey behemoth smirking, "Aces and eights. Dead man's hand. Which is what any o' you mooks is gonna be if you mess with my chips. I'll be back to collect the cash in a bit, I'm gonna go check on what Billy Ocean brought in on dat motorcycle."

Cigar smoke. The odor of it prompts Kwabena to withdraw his pack of menthols and light up. This provides him a pause, and a chance to look around the hangar. There's Rogers in his makeshift office, and there's…

"So," says Kwabena toward the grey behemoth that approaches. "I should ask, but something tells me it's above my pay grade."

Steve takes just one more second with what he's working on, then decides to put it off to later. He realizes he's inadvertently being rude and makes haste to meet up with Kwabena and Joe out in the main room. "Heya Odame." Steve also nods toward Joe and seems to take no immediate issue with the smoking. In all honesty, it's a lot more like he remembers this way. "What's up?"

Joe Fixit raises a thick eyebrow at Shift, "Just mind yer own beeswax, Smokey, an' you an' I'll get along fine. One thing you should probably know is that Green Genes and Banner get all fergetful about shit," he says and then leans down, pulling out his cigar and exhaling some smoke in Kwabena's face, "I, on de other hand, remember everythin'. Includin' what it feels like t'be lit on fire. Ya dig me? So let's just play nice and you tell me you brought a gun big enough fer me to use…or that you can at least get one," he says, standing back upright.

"Above my pay grade," Kwabena finally acknowledges, following a long silence and what seems like no reaction to having cigar smoke blown in his face.

Turning aside, he crouched down to open the duffle. There's an assortment of weaponry in there, ranging from personal sidearms to heavier, tactical assault rifles. "Something from my own, pahsonal stash," he tells the others.

A pair of ballistics cases are hefted and set upon the shelf, before they're unlatched and opened up for Joe and Steve to inspect. Inside each, a pristine M-80, complete with spare clips and various attachments to serve a variety of uses.

"Sure, I can get you something," Shift tells Joe. "May need to have it trucked in, but…"

Steve watches the interplay between Shift and Joe, but remains quiet. During part, he raises his eyebrow lightly, but he merely stands there, leaning against a post, with his arms folded. "That's a lot of guns," he says.

Joe Fixit doesn't actually know jack about guns, he just likes the idea of 'em. Point and blam. Not that punching people isn't satisfying as fuck, but even his long arms have limits to their reach. "Maybe a grenade launcher or a missile thingy. Whatever the fuck you call 'em. Something I can use to blow some shit up."

He glances over at Cap with a smirk on his face, "Somethin' tells me Big Boss Man's got a little itchin' in his britches 'bout these. That or he just ate too much bran or some shit. You gotta get some bacon with your breakfast, Cap, add some grease to the waterslide."

"Sure is," Kwabena says, and turns away from the unloading of guns with every intention of unloading upon Steve.

Instead, he stands there with his mouth ajar, cigarette wielding hand mid-point in Rogers' direction, but with his eyes locked upon Joe Fixit.

He just can't help it. A snort works its way out, followed by another. A moment later, and the mercenary is huffing some laughter through his nose, and shaking his head. He turns back around and grabs a few more items from the duffle, walking down to place them on another empty space. Joe's managed to quell the avalanche, if only for a moment. "I have a lot of guns. Too many." There are reasons why; reasons he doesn't bother explaining. Let's just say he owns a lot because he can't keep track of them easily in the field.

"Kwa," Steve says, shifting slightly and tilting his head to the side. "What's going on?" It's been nearly two years since Kwabena and Steve went on their first mission together. In addition to kidnapped children, they've seen Cincy projects, assassination attempts, faked deaths, a mutant drug epidemic, and one dead terrorist leader (Fury is still probably pissed at that one). The point is, he's starting to know when Odame is having an issue.

Joe Fixit doesn't give a rat's tookus about Shift's issues. Unless he starts having issues with his girlfriend, Banner's best friend. In which case he may end up seeing how Kwabena's ears look on the opposite sides of his head.

He lets the patriot and the merc sort out their ethical discussion while he casually pokes through the weaponry with oversized fingers. All's well for a moment until there's a large CRACK as he accidentally snaps an M-16 in twain, "Whoops. Cheap crap, not my fault."

"Dat op was too close," Kwabena lets loose. He rounds upon Steve, glaring a bit. "Telling de team to avoid killing is admirable. Tell dem to avoid injuries? Look around you, Rogahs. Injury is de only way some of us get de job done."

There is a pause at the sound of that M-16 cracking in half. He doesn't even have to look, but he does jerk a thumb toward Joe, indicatively. "We weren't dealing with criminals out dere. We were dealing with soldiers. Trained to kill, ready to blow up ovah a hundred children. Tell me not to take a kill shot if I got one, when so many lives are at stake? I'll give you de fingah and pull a damn triggah."

Steve inhales deeply and looks past Kwabena, out onto the wet New Jersey fields. Finally he nods. "I think you're right. I honestly thought about that the whole plane ride back. We were lucky that night."

After another moment, he adds, "I've killed people in my life. Many people. I killed people on the Terrorcarrier, a week before Supergirl blew it up. It's not as easy as I made it out to be, and I'm thankful no one died."

Joe Fixit reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of beef jerky the size of a loaf of bread. He casually tears a bite off of it and watches the exchange between the two, chewing slowly and finally swallowing, "Jesus fuck, you guys worry too much. Do what ya gotta do. I kill guys sometimes, usually 'cause you damn puny humans are fragile little bitches. So hug it out or some shit so we can get down to the business of figurin' out whose ass we need to kick next," he says.

He considers for a moment and then extends the beef, "Want some of my Fat Jim?"

"Basira al-Tawhid." That name ought to ring a bell; her final thoughts were trailed by a shell between the eyes from Shift's rifle, two years back. "Still have nightmares, sometimes."

The cigarette goes back in, and the Ghanaian puffs on it readily while unloading the rest of his donated gear. "We worry for a reason," he tells Joe. "It's easy to put a bullet in someone's head." A pause, and a conceding gesture towards Joe. "Or to rip someone's head off. Dat's easy. My point is, sometimes it's de only option. More often, it's not." He's a counterbalance, if anything. Contrary to popular belief, Kwabena has never really been cold about the killing he's done. Hence, the nightmares.

"Absolutely," Steve says as he reaches over and takes off a hunk from the Fat Jim. He lets out a sigh. "One of the problems I had down in Metropolis, and one of the reasons I washed out with the League is that I was sort of tone deaf. I think this is an issue we should probably discuss as a group at some point. Again, I think we lucked out a few nights ago. I foolishly thought we'd walk in and they'd give up and that'd be that."

Joe Fixit doesn't particularly care about ethical arguments. Which is why he just lets it go. He'd do what he wanted to. Sometimes humans were gonna pop like pimples - wasn't any point gettin' all weepy about it. Kwabena probably did. The merc had a little bit of crybaby around the edges of the eyes.

He takes another big bite of his jerky and shrugs, "Well, they fuckin' should've, but you can't ever underestimate stupid. Stupid always finds new lows. S'how casinos stay in business."

With a smirk, Kwabena finally goes for a rip of that Fat Jim. He's never one to turn down a good source of protein. He gnaws on it for a moment, taking the time to curl his cigarette into a fist that quickly goes super-solid, then reverts back to normal, bearing one snuffed out cigarette butt.

"Where do you get dose things, anyway?" he asks Joe, regarding the Fat Jim. He burns a lot of calories changing matter states, after all. People just don't know, because he tends to conceal his pig-outs.

"Let's have a discussion, den," he tells Steve. "If we need to. We can kill as easily as we can't. I, for one, don't want to see peopah defaulting to it because it's quick and easy. But I don't want to see peopah hesitating when it needs to be done. I'm not satisfied with luck being de reason 118 children are alive."

"Fair enough, Kwa. I'll start setting something up. Maybe take a field trip," Steve says with a nod. "I've got a few calls to make. Keep the firing to a dull roar for the first 15, if you'd be so kind." Steve smirks, "I can't believe they have meat that comes in a plastic tube, these days. America is a wonderful place." He takes another hunk, just because, before heading back towards the office.

Joe Fixit shrugs, "It ain't rocket science. I bought a shitload of Slim Jims and squeezed," he says. He takes another bite. "I don't mind having a discussion but we're gonna need some pizza. And some beer. Too bad football season's over, we could watch a game and just slather ourselves in fuckin' America, give Cap a good ol' boner."

Kwabena pauses, and eyeballs the hunk of meat in his hand. He looks back to Joe, then back to the meat, then back to Joe. "Nevahmind," he finally decides. "Yeah, just… good on you."

A mock salute is sent to Steve, before he zips up the duffle bag and settles himself down on a nearby cargo crate. "Now, if you're gonna go for shock and awe, what we really need is something heavier dan personal firearms," he tells Joe. "Aeronautic grade. Just need to reverse engineer a firing mechanism, and you're golden."

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