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Event - Dogged

Dogged

The message goes out to everyone on ADI's network. It seems to be something captured live. It's Pam Ruan, head of HR who holds a prosthetic finger up to her lips before whispering, "Everyone's pushing for transparency right now, right? Figuring out where threats are coming from and sharing. I think that should come at all levels. Let's see what Nia's talking about with Mr. Zyrian Steel, hmm?"

The camera flips around as Pam clearly creeps closer to an office door. There are muffled voices, and Pam sets the phone face up before using one hand to shove the thing under the door. The video shows a sliding picture of the office's bland ceiling for a moment before coming to a stop. The voices become much clearer.

"-down in Wolf Trap," a masculine voice is saying. Presumably, Zyrian Steel. "There's just no need for that."

"Zyrian, this ain't a negotiation." Nia Lehrer's voice is familiar to most people working at ADI at this point. They've likely heard her speak in some pre-recorded training videos at the bare minimum. Nia's tone is no nonsense and clearly on the edge of snapping in frustration. "You're not hiring us. I'm sending my people down to Wolf Trap next month. We've got evidence of those signalhead things being on the march, one down that way, your kick off for New Horizons in the park, and evidence out of there about the Lullaby Girl from some of my people."

There is silence.

"You remember her? Ava? Or Amber, it seems like. She's the one you gave us those Lucidio masks to help train our people against. Frankly, I'd be surprised if you don't remember her, Mr. S." Another drawn out pause. "You ain't been straight with me for a long time. You ain't been straight with ADI since Tawnya was Warden. You tell me you need us in Buffalo, payback for helping in Wolf Pen and Cortana and the mobile med units, and not only do half the staff come back with crab claws and whiskers, but I find out you're using us for business politics." There's venom in her tone. "Or were you just going to stay quiet about Etcher's enterprises competing with your own software companies? ADI is not your personal attack dog. You are our client. And I thought my friend. But I'm about 30 seconds away from firing you from both."

Further silence, then a heavy sigh. "And I was going to offer to send you and your staff on such a nice retreat." There's the sound of a chair being pushed back. "Warden, I think you misunderstand the nature of our relationship. You are the dogs. I am the master. I hold your leash. Or have you forgotten just how much technology I've donated to ADI over the years, how many of your systems run on things I built? We've had a mutually beneficial relationship up until now- Well… you and I have. Tawnya got to be a problem before the end, too. But I made sure that was taken care of."

"You self-aggrandizing son of a-"

"You're a much more practical woman than she ever was, even with those shiny ideals you hold so dear. You'll compromise for the greater good, to protect what's yours. Such a good Warden, looking out for her charges."

"What are you talking about? And get your hands the hell off my desk."

"Haven't you ever wondered about the title? Warden. Odd name for a leader of any organization, even one like yours. But maybe not so odd when you consider your more eldritch masters." A scoff. "The Hunt always does pick out the most oblivious avatars, doesn't it? What does a Warden do?" A beat. "She controls the monsters, Nia. Sniffs them out and contains them. And she goes after the poachers coming after her prey. Tell me, have you ever noticed how you're always picking up on threats far afield with uncanny precision. It's been getting stronger, hasn't it? Tawnya was the same way. As was her predecessor, I imagine."

"That's not- I wouldn't ever…"

"Wouldn't you, though? Every time you sent your own dogs after a threat, reveled in it, you were being such a good Warden, instilling terror in the hearts of your enemies, ADI's enemies. So many cults know who and what you are and they fear it. Fear the Warden of ADI, famed avatar of the Hunt. Even now, I know you've compromised yourself. Have you considered what that's done to you? You let that Visionary kid stay alive. I rather think that might have been the start of your slide, hmm? Making exceptions, just this once.

"Now," he continues, voice growing louder and footsteps starting toward the phone, "I realize this is a lot to take in, to think about. Why don't you do that self-reflection while I attend to other matters? You are doing good work, puppy. I need a dependable pet to take care of all those nasty pests who keep trying rituals. But no need to worry about the New Horizons launch, really. I'll just-" Zyrian pauses and everyone will have a view of a middle-aged caucasian man with dark, slightly graying hair and a beard. He's wearing khakis and a Hawaiian shirt, and he's looking down at Pam's phone.

"Well… fuck." He stomps a heeled shoe on it and the transmission ends abruptly.

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"No, I haven't had anything since the apartment except coffee, and I finished that before I geared up," Winter says, pulling out the medical supplies next: a roll of bandages, a row of wound sealing tape, and a surgical needle and thread. He can't handle medical, so he has to handle any wounds he gets himself. They're all safe, and all get tossed into the office.

"Okay. Good." That's something fully eliminated, then.

He watches as Winter goes through the medical kit next. If that's from Winter's locker - well, shit, he doesn't want to think about someone tampering with anyone else's belongings, so he's a little relieved when those are safe, too.

But they're running out of options, which means his eyes sharpen as he studies what's left. "The armory," he says, slowly. "Did anything seem off?" He has to assume not - Winter's sharp, he would have noticed if it had.

"Not at the time," Winter says darkly, though his expression is sliding back into the asset's blank when he stops paying attention to it. "But it makes sense. Hide among the other deadly things." He picks up a knife. That one's his personal knife. One of his personal knives, he has several. Thankfully, it's safe. He collects the knives one by one, unsheathing them, looking them over, resheathing them, and then tossing them into the office. There are just the two guns left. "Got to be one of these."

Steve thinks he's starting to learn, at least, when the blank face is bad and when it's just blank because Winter's got his mind on other things. And it's pretty fair to have his mind on other things.

He nods, resisting the very strong urge to toe the nearest one with his own boot. "Honestly? I don't want you to touch 'em again. I think we should assume it's one or both and treat them as hazardous."

And possibly everything else in the armory - wouldn't that be great. "What if I get a broom to just - sweep them into something so we can dispose of them?"

"Watch the broom turn metal," Winter mutters, but he can't deny he doesn't really want to touch them, either. He wants his fingers to look normal again. He wants it so bad. "Get one. And there's trash bags in the closet, too. I'll get dressed again. And then we can take them both outside and toss a grenade at them."

Maybe that will help. Or maybe it will go away in time, like with the crab plates. (Maybe it won't, like Yelena's eyes and teeth and hair.)

"Couldn't care less about a broom," Steve points out, watching Winter for a moment more before he sets Mjolnir down near one wall, turns on his heel, and strides for the nearest closet to get said supplies.

It doesn't take long; he's back a few minutes later with the broom in one hand and a bag in the other, planning to toss said bag to Winter if he's ready to go. Steve is going to stubbornly insist on handling the broom, should it become a question.

Winter is dressed again by then, but he doesn't look any more comfortable. He's holding himself stiffly, and when he turns to face Steve as he returns, it's not as fluid as Steve would be used to. He's moving... wrong. He can tell, and he hates it. "Toss me the bag. I'll hold it. You sweep the guns into it."

Yeah, Steve sees the way he's moving and it is not reassuring. His eyes move over Winter, like maybe he's trying to make sure he didn't miss something, put something back on that he shouldn't have, but... it doesn't look like it.

Maybe they need to destroy the guns for their effect to dissipate.

He does as he's told, tossing the bag to Winter and waiting for the other to position it properly so he can start pushing the weapons in carefully, trusting that the safeties were on (and that it will even matter, with potentially evil handguns). All the same, he tries to keep the barrels from pointing at either of them as he sweeps, taking care not to let either of them touch Winter's hands as he holds the bag.

"How are you feeling?" he can't help but ask.

"Like crap," Winter says flatly, crouching and holding the bag open, a little awkwardly because of the double set of metal fingers, none of which are the length they're supposed to be. "I feel wrong. Off. Like not-me." At least now he has enough sense of self to know when it's not right... that's something.

But the feeling of it being not right: "It's actually awful."

At least getting the guns into the bag won't be hard. Safeties are definitely on, and they seem inert when not held by anyone.

Steve's mouth tightens; it's not quite a frown, but it's close. Mostly, he's worried, and he doesn't like what he hears, particularly coupled with what he sees.

"Did it start at the same time you noticed the, uh..." He motions to Winter's hands with one elbow while he pushes the guns into the bag with the broom, careful not to even let them bump Winter's boot on the way in if he can help it.

"After," Winter answers. "Mostly before I was just grumpy. I think." He's pretty sure. "The star changed first. Then the rest of the arm. Then the other hand. Then I panicked, and that's when I noticed I didn't feel right either." Because his panic was not as visibly extreme as he knows it should have been.

He uses the lip of the bag to hook the second gun in and flips it shut, holding it at arm's length. "Maybe I can put a grenade inside, pull the pin, and then throw it away."

Steve lets out a little laugh, even though he knows Winter wasn't trying to be funny. "Seems like as good a plan as any. Come on - let's get out of the building."

He can't help but feel like that might help, too. All of these issues are popping up because of things in the building. Outside has got to be better.

He hesitates, then reaches out. He wants to put an arm around Winter's waist, either not concerned that whatever's happening is going to rub off or not caring, but he doesn't know if the other will let him. He kind of hopes so. Then I panicked keeps replaying in his head, and he wants to help. Somehow.

It's a better panic than it could have been, in general. He didn't hide in a closet to hyperventilate. That, too, might be a sign of being off... or it might just be a sign that desperation to fix a problem can over-ride a panic attack.

He doesn't move away from Steve's arm, though he does hunch over a little to make sure the bag gets nowhere near it. "Careful," he warns, voice flat but expression edging into nervous.

"I won't touch it," Steve promises, quietly; he wants to say he doesn't care, but he doesn't want to make things worse. He wants to make them better. "Just you. That's safe."

He doesn't want to think about what he'll do if it's not.

Plus, this way he can help steer Winter through the halls, beelining for the closest exit. He's already thinking that if the armory's not safe, he should... do something about that. Soon. Later. Once the immediate situation has been dealt with. Once Winter is safe. Hopefully better. Steve very much hopes the lingering effects wear off once the guns are destroyed.

"Let me know if anything else looks off. If we're not sure about something we pass, we'll just add it to the bag."

After a beat, Winter decides not to fight it. If touching him will make Steve change, it's too late anyway, and it feels... almost nice, actually. Bracing.

"Found a bucket earlier," Winter says. "It tried to eat a broomstick when I poked it. Had to chase it outside and throw a grenade at it."

Steve can't say he's disappointed Winter doesn't try to shrug him off. Together they make their way quickly but carefully through the halls.

His eyebrows rise significantly at that. "A bucket." Nothing is safe, apparently.

But also, "I'm sensing a theme, here," he adds, with a tiny hint of a smile. "Good thing the grenades are safe."

And that they seem to work. Frankly, it's valuable information. "We should stock up."

"I have a small stockpile," Winter promises grimly. Then he adds, voice uninflected despite the admission, "I kind of like blowing things up. It's satisfying. Also usually effective. Though only temporarily, sometimes." Like with the pyramid. Or the wax avatars that they had to bury in pieces so they didn't reconstitute.

Steve can't quite help the smile that tugs at his lips. "It is satisfying," he agrees. "And usually effective."

He doesn't like the fact that that pyramid was so resistant, but at least it seems to be the exception, rather than the rule.

"It's a good strategy - dealing with things from a distance." At least, in this case. It's not a strategy Steve is known for applying, but it's maybe one he could do to implement more often, these days, given the givens.

"Maybe make sure that stockpile stays stocked," he says, softly, spotting the door and picking up the pace just a little, more, if Winter seems able to move a bit quicker.

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Event - Dogged

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