The Norwegian Job

December 27, 2017:

Michael Carter's 'simple mission' goes wrong.

North of Sjøvegan, Norway.

Cold, deep fjords and a rocky landscape.


NPCs: Marco De Jong, Felix Culpa, various thugs

Mentions: Jessica Jones, Peggy Carter


Mood Music: [*\ None.]

Fade In…

"The way is clear. We should go now,” says a tall, dark-haired man who speaks Dutch to his compatriot. He stands with his shoulder pressed against the door, peering cautiously out the window to a barren landscape with pockets of snow already resting in nooks of partially frozen ground. The low mountains and deep fjords look equal parts barren and beautiful.

"It’s going to be dark soon,” says the other.

"Yes, and that’s why we should go now, Daan!”

"We have to retrieve Lund. It’s not an option to do otherwise.” The man he calls Daan sits behind an overturned table in the small building. He’s checking the bullets in his pistol. There’s a bit of dried blood on his hands and mud and blood spattered on his clothing. In fact, it looks like he’s been living in those jeans, plaid shirt and puffy winter jacket for days. "He can’t have gotten far, but there is an awful lot of open space out there. And this is his back yard, not ours.”

"Yes, this is why we head south, back to the main road. I saw a farmhouse with trucks. We hotwire one and get back to Sjøvegan.”

"Marco. We broke a traitor out of a Norwegian military camp and we intended to give him to the bloody Russians. In what world does doubling back to Sjøvegan make sense?” Daan shakes his head and snaps the clip into place. "They are going to be on the lookout for foreigners and I don’t know about you but I didn’t learn to speak Norwegian in the last twenty minutes.”

"I know a few words,” says Marco, almost impetuously. "Aie aie, all right. We get him. Where is he running to, anyway? I thought he wanted to spill to the Russians.”

Maybe he doesn’t trust us to give him to the Russians. "Spooked, maybe?” Daan grabs for a cigarette and lights it up, then moves towards the window to check carefully. No sign of the Norwegian military - yet. "I think I shot him in the leg, so he is going to be moving slowly. And the plane that was flying over I think was just commercial. There’s an airport about sixty kilometers away.”

"Great. Let’s get the fuck out of here, grab that limping son of a bitch Lund, and get our asses paid.” Marco pulls back the clip on his gun, shoves his wool hat down further on his head, throws open the cabin door and storms out.

The bullet that takes him down arrives with a soft thwok and sprays a fountain of blood out of the back of his head. Marco drops to his knees, then crumples face first onto the half frozen earth.

Daan drops back behind that overturned table and peers out. Three people. Got here quickly and quietly. Probably already have Lund, which is how they found us.


"You’re in a cabin built for the view, not for defense,” calls a voice speaking in Dutch from outside. "But you know that. It was a mistake to ever go in there.”

Daan is already on the move. He’s sprinting for the back. He slams open the window in one fluid motion and rolls out, bouncing in a controlled way against a small wood shed. He’s on his feet in no time, and sprinting hard across the rough ground. He can hear bullets whizzing by, thokking into the earth or piercing his puffy jacket, sending a spray of down into the air. He runs down a steep embankment, hopping from rough stone to rough stone, heavy soled work boots splashing in a small muddy stream. Then it’s up the opposite steep bank, bullets following after.

Daan drops behind a jutted stone that provides some cover, then turns to fire off a series of shots. The first misses, but the second hits one of the men square between the eyes. One other goes for cover. The third is nowhere to be seen.

He stays there for a moment, dampness seeping through his jeans from a small patch of snow. He’s breathing heavily. There’s the sound of thundering feet, and he gets to his own feet just in time to find himself rushed by one of the men and tackled to the ground. He uses the momentum of the fall to heave the larger man up and over through the air. The big man lands heavily on a jut of rock and cries out in pain as his arm twists at an unnatural angle. Daan hauls back and swings a muddy boot up to crack the man hard against the jaw, dropping him into unconsciousness.

There’s still the third man out there. Daan raises his gun and spins around, searching for any signs of movement. His head is ringing a bit and his body stings in half a dozen places. He starts to back up, over the craggy hill, searching for signs of the vehicle that the men arrived in.

He catches sight of the movement a seconds too late. He tries to lock the gun arm in a sharp grip and elbow the wielder in the face, but instead he hears the click of the safety being released and feels the barrel of the gun pressing directly against his chest, through the tear in his shirt. He finds himself staring into the face of someone very familiar. "Felix?” he breathes.

"Hello, Brit. Long time no see,” says the man in Scottish-accented English. Then he squeezes the trigger point blank not once, but three times, moving the position of the barrel each time.

The skin mesh that protects Michael Carter from bullet wounds cannot protect him at point blank range with armor piercing rounds. That’s what Felix empties into him. The mesh slows them enough that instead of exiting, they burrow deep inside him. It will only be minutes before the mesh seals up behind the bullets and stops the bleeding, but it does nothing to help the internal damage. He drops to the rocky earth, cracking his head for good measure and sliding down the muddy earth towards a small stream. Blood snakes across the ground and joins the water.

The Scot hovers over him, sniffs once, then steps over his prone body to walk back towards the cabin. "Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take care of Lund for you. You just rest.”

And then, everything slides to black.


Less than an hour later, a cryptic message appears on the phones of Jessica Jones and Peggy Carter. It cannot be traced back to its source beyond its location: London, England.

68.926484, 17.887623


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