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Journalistic Intuition

Chapter Text

You sat in a cramped New York City apartment, furiously typing away on your laptop from the frumpy couch in your living room. The rain on the window tapped out a feverish rhythm, matching the intensity of your concentration. You paused to take a sip of coffee, and drained the remainder of your mug. Somewhere in the apartment, a phone rang.

You sprang out of your perch on the couch to catch the phone. Your fingers pressed talk and rested it between your cheek and shoulder.

“(Y/N) (Y/L/N), how can I help you?” You huffed out.

“Goddamn it (Y/N), you said you’d have that article to me three hours ago! I can’t get you published in the New York Post if I don’t have anything to give them!” The voice on the phone shouted.

“Shit, I’m sorry Nick, I’m almost done with it. Something unexpected came up, but I promise you, this article is my sole priority right now. I’ll have it to you within the hour.” You sighed and walked back to your laptop.

“I really don’t understand why you had to go rogue. You had a good job, and writing freelance never works out for anyone.” Nick said. Your eyes closed in frustration.

“You know damn well why, Nick. This was my decision, and you may not agree with it, but it’s my life to screw up. You know I appreciate you getting my articles published, but I’m not going back to Newsday. I left to find the truth by myself.” You said. Nick sighed.

“Just get that article to me soon, okay?” He said. You assured him, and hung up the phone. You slammed the phone down on your coffee table, and ran your hands through messy hair, resting them on the nape of your neck. You took a few deep breaths, then settled back into your rapidly paced pattern.

--
A little under an hour later, you finally pressed the send button. You collapsed back on your couch, letting out a breath you were unaware you’d been holding the whole time. By the morning, your exposé on the long-term effects of the attack on New York would run in one of New York’s major newspapers. You were proud of yourself, however ragged journalism may run you.

You pulled yourself off the couch and walked into your bedroom. You were about to change into pajamas and go to bed when your cell phone buzzed. You picked it up and opened the message.
It was from an anonymous contact for a lead you’d been following. You read the message quickly, and almost dropped your phone. He’s here. Come now. The message’s contents threw you into a frenzy. You flew around your room, pulling on a trench coat and boots, and shoving your equipment into a messenger bag. You grabbed your phone, shoving it in your pocket, and practically sprinted out the door.

You ran down the stairs of your apartment building, and didn’t stop running until you were a block and a half away and seated on the subway train. You sighed impatiently, bouncing your leg slightly. A man across the train from you leered and made a crude gesture, but you didn’t dignify it with a response. As much as you hated it and normally took pleasure in cursing out these types of men or embarrassing them, you had more important things on your mind.

A few stops later, you finally arrived at your destination. You almost tripped over yourself sprinting up the stairs, and you began running down the street. As you ran, you pulled out your phone, and dialed a number. After a few rings, they picked up.

“Mitchell, are you there? Listen, I just got a text, I think he’s coming tonight. Gather everyone, I need to make sure they’re safe.” You urged.

“Are you almost here?” The voice on the end of the phone asked. You stopped in your tracks. You didn’t recognize the voice on the other end.

“Who the hell is this, where is Mitchell!” You yelled into the phone, panicked. The voice never answered. You began to run again, growing more and more distressed. You ran into a familiar alley, and stopped. It was empty. It was never empty. New York’s homeless population couldn’t have just disappeared overnight.

You whipped around, desperate to see anyone, desperate to find something. You turned in circles, frantic, unsure of where to look. You heard the clicks of a machine behind you, and you turned to face it, but you were blinded with a blue light. Disoriented, you threw your hands in front of your face. The light grew brighter, and just as instinct kicked in and you began to turn and run, everything went black.

--

You groaned, your eyes still closed. You rubbed a hand over them, refusing to open them just yet. You heard a loud beeping, and flung an arm towards what you assumed was your alarm clock, and you froze when your hand landed on something unfamiliar. You slowly opened your eyes, adjusting to the brightness of your surroundings. You blinked a few times, then fully opened them. In front of you was a seemingly endless mountain of trash.

You scrambled to your feet as best you could. You surveyed your surroundings, panic setting in. You looked up at the sky.

“What the fuck.” You dropped to the ground, staring at the three moons visible above you. “Oh my god. Oh my god. What the fuck?!” You curled into yourself, burying your face in your knees. You stayed like that for a few minutes, refusing to acknowledge the world around you. The loud noises of a vehicle approaching broke your trance. You looked up from your lap to see a spaceship, a goddamn spaceship, landing in front of you. Three people walked out. They wore strange clothing, and had paint on their faces. One of them had blue skin. You looked up to the sky, as if to ask, could it get any fucking weirder?

“Are you a fighter, or are you food?” One of them spoke up, walking towards you. You scrambled to your feet. Behind the one advancing on you, you could see the other two were holding weapons and some kind of net.

“Okay, just hold on, I’m not here to cause trouble, I just need to get back home.” You said. You put your hands up to show you meant no harm. The front one flashed a toothy grin.

“Food it is.” They stalked towards you, weapons firing up. You walked backwards, eyes wide with terror, and tripped on something. You looked down briefly, and noticed you’d tripped over a huge… gun thing. You picked it up and pointed it at the trio of aliens determined to eat you, and they laughed at you.

“Look Ravu, she thinks she can beat us!” The blue alien gestured towards you, and the front alien laughed. They stalked forward, and you desperately tried to figure out how to fire the huge piece of machinery. Just as you was sure you were done for, another ship approached and landed ungracefully on the garbage pile behind you. The front of the ship opened, and a platform extended to the ground. Loud music pounded inside, and it almost reminded you of the heavy metal your neighbors would play. You scrambled out of the way.

A woman sauntered down the platform, gun in one hand and bottle in the other. She had white paint in a pattern over her dark eyes, and her hair was braided up into some kind of warrior hairstyle. She drained the bottle and tossed it over her shoulder. You figured this woman was not someone to fuck with.

“I’ll be taking her for the Grandmaster.” She said, looking past you to who you understood was Ravu and the two other aliens.

“We were here first! Go find another one, she’s ours.” Ravu shouted, hands gripping his gun.

“Well, she’s got a gun and you’ve failed to capture her yet, and I don’t see anything to suggest she’s yours at all.” The woman laughed, and Ravu began to protest. “Don’t you remember last time you tried to beat me?” She pointed her gun at him. Ravu touched the large scar running across his face that you had just noticed yourself.

“Asgardian scum!” He yelled at her, turning away. He scurried back into his ship and the other two followed. You sighed in relief.

“Thank you so much, I thought they were gonna eat me.” You thanked the woman, dropping the gun.

“Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart.” She laughed darkly. You paled.

“Woah, woah, woah, I’m not gonna let you eat me.” You yelled, scrambling for the gun you’d just dropped. The woman was on you before you could even grab it. She threw you over her shoulder like a rag doll, and headed for her ship. You shrieked. You struggled against your captor, grasping for anything to help you. You reached behind you and grabbed a fistful of the woman’s hair, and yanked it backwards. The momentum was enough to loosen the woman’s grip on your legs, and you slid down enough to elbow her square in the nose. You fell to the ground, and the woman laughed. She touched her nose and her fingers came back bloody, and you silently cheered. If you didn’t know how to fight after growing up in Brooklyn, you might as well move to Ohio.

“That’s cute.” The woman smirked at you. You scrambled to your legs. “I thought we could do this the easy way, but you’re really gonna make me do it, huh?” She tossed a small metal disc at you, and it stuck to your neck painfully.

“What the-” Electric currents cut you off. You dropped to the ground, convulsing. The woman stepped over you, the controller in her hand. “I always win.” She said. You registered being thrown over the woman’s shoulder again, and blacked out.

--

When you came to, you were lying on the floor of a spaceship. You groaned and touched your head. You looked up to see your captor sitting above you, piloting the ship. She looked down at you, and pulled the controller out of her pocket.

“Wait! I won’t move I promise, just please don’t shock me!” You pleaded. The woman looked down at you, eyes doubting, but she put the controller back in her pocket.

“You so much as scratch your ass, you’re getting shocked. Don’t try anything.” She said, staring straight ahead. You sighed in relief.

“What do I call you?” You asked. The woman stared straight ahead still. “Scrapper 142 will do just fine.”

“Scrapper 142 it is.” You said. “Tell me Scrapper 142, what are you exactly? Ravu called you Asgardian. Do you know anything about Loki? Do you know anything about the invasion?” You rattled off questions, entering journalist mode.

“You ask too many questions.” Scrapper 142 glared down at you and picked up the controller. You convulsed back into unconsciousness.