Exiles in Elseworlds

Lensherr's men, dressed in high-end Italian suits, are passing the time waiting by playing a quick and dirty game of poker on the bonnet of one of the Buicks. Banter and cigarette smoke drifts upwards into the orange light that falls across the pier.

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His instincts have never served him wrong before. Everything in him is insisting that this is a trap.

But the best way to deal with a trap... is to spring it.

He's still nervous, though. He's waiting for the right moment.

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One of the men nudges his friend as three figures approach them from the other end of the pier. Two are wheeling two large dollies of merchandise in the lead figure's wake. The captain of the Cornelia Marie is here to make his dropoff.

The card game is abruptly halted; game winnings swept off the car's hood with practised ease. "About time you showed up," one of them needles the captain.

The captain is an older gentleman who walks with a slight limp, aided by an elaborately handcarved wooden cane. He pauses a few yards short of the gaggle of henchmen. "Business keeps me busy," he replies in a thick Russian accent.

A gesture to the two following brings the loaded dollies forward.

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Two of the Lensherr men, wearing black leather gloves, step forward with a crowbar to open one of the wooden crates.

"I trust this is, as usual, to your employer's satisfaction."

The splintering of wood cracks the humid air. The two would-be inspectors take a cursory glance inside, remove a small package that looks like a white powder, then nod to their boss. He reaches into his inside jacket pocket for an envelope and hands it to the captain.

"As was agreed."

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Steve nods to the others. "Now," he whispers.

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"About damn time," he grouses, but he wastes no time. Two arrows, large purple broadheads designed to pierce the best bulletproof vest, find their marks.

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From another direction, a repulsar blast is leveled at one of the goons.

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"What the -- "

Two of the suits go down, and the others scatter like ninepins, immediately reaching for their guns to fire back, looking for cover. Yelling intermingles with gunfire.

"Where the hell are they?"

"It's the goddamn Avengers!"

The dollies of illegal goods tip over as the Cornelia Marie's crewman dive for the safety of the stacked metal cargo containers.

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Cap's got a tommy gun... but it's firing rubber bullets. He ducks up from his cover long enough to fire a spray, but then ducks back down when fire starts coming his way.

Yeah, he's choosing non-lethal for the moment. The dead don't make convincing witnesses.

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Hawkeye's nocking a tear gas arrowhead as he speaks. "We gotta secure the goods before they throw 'em in the drink!" No evidence, no case.

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He gestures to the goods, looking at Rhodey. "Go!"

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"On it!"

The armor, though a bit clunky, makes its way over to secure the carge, firing off a few repulsor blasts to keep everyone else away from it.

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But as the armor draws closer to the cargo, the joints begin stiffening up. Gears wail and grind in impotent protest.

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Steve looks around for the source of the problem. As suspected... a trap.

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"Dammit -- "

Clint nocks and fires a flashbang tip to clear a path, then jumps down into the fray.

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Landings can be tricky things. Any number of things can go wrong....

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Clint Barton trained in a circus. He's one of the most balanced and agile athletes among the small group of Avengers.

So when his footing fails him, sending a hot burst of pain flaring in his ankle, he knows something's not right. But there's no time -- they're being shot at left, right and center. Rolling forward into a crouch with a loud curse, he pulls his bow back into position and fires at the limo being used as cover with an explosive broadhead, keeping his weight shifted onto his back foot.

The goons meanwhile are scrambling, shooting back lethal blasts of .45 rounds as they try to edge back towards the shipment.

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When the battle started, the noise had scared off most of the birds near that section of the docks.

A few remained, though, and one flies high above the battle to look for the source of the Avengers' problems.

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A rabbit scurries out across the dock, automatically zigzagging to confuse any predators.

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C'mon you old bucket of bolts, don't do this to me!

The gears were grinding loudly as metal threatened to sheer against metal. The War Machine could barely move, and was a sitting duck. He was taking fire, but thankfully, it was just handguns so far, which the armor could handle easily.

"Don't worry about me. Just secure the shipment!"

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Hawkeye's arrow sails through an open passenger side window of one of the black Buicks, before its explosive tip detonates. Flames burst to life within its confines, forcing the suits back to seek better cover.

A sudden hail of machine gun fire to his left answers him. Three others take up positions flanking the Avengers, trying to hem them in with a constant rain of bullets.

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"I'm on it!" he calls back over the chaos, dodging falling debris that used to be the Buick's roof. He's favoring his right leg, however; but the shipment's within a stone's throw now as he ducks behind the other car's trunk.

Maybe these guys'll like a couple arrows to the ankles. It's a tricky shot, but that's what Hawkeye's all about.

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