1963-11-16 - Tallyho, Ed McMahon!
Summary: Who knew SHIELD didn't like alien invaders?!
Related: A Really Big Show
Theme Song: None
wanda peggy clint 

The first whiff that something was up was when SHIELD got an alarm that the Emergency Broadcast System had been hijacked. A signal was going out across the country and it was entirely illegal. There was no approval from the President, nor the Joint Chiefs, no inclement weather emergency, no national turmoil. Instead it was, of all things, the Ed Sullivan show.

The feed was brought up and when some of the on-duty officers looked, one of them turned towards Peggy. "Do you know that guy?" And suddenly that guy wasn't that guy anymore but some armored being with… giants, and a frightened Ed Sullivan. It happened so fast.

But SHIELD is not slow. Studio 50 is perhaps half a dozen blocks, or a little more from the secret SHIELD HQ and at the first word, Clint Barton was running across the motor pool. He holds up a hand to one of the grease monkeys, "Key me!"

The mechanic throws the Buick's keys straight towards Barton, even as other agents rush to other vehicles. He catches the gaze of another agent, "Maximoff! You're with me." He says even as he leaps into the window of the car and drops into the seat, the engine roaring. If she chooses to join him it won't be long before they're peeling rubber out of the car park.


No one in their right mind shows up to one of these shindigs wearing an evening gown. Much less one that looks spun from the night sky, as airy as anything Givenchy or Dior have ever produced. In an era of polyester and tactical khaki, Wanda Maximoff is doing a great job being the black swan among the ducks.

She's busy glaring at one of the agents keeping cool under the circumstances, and points at her back. "Be quiet. Open the zipper." A faltering bit of English on the last. Whatever agent is about to have a nosebleed or an apoplexy might have to fidget worse when she gestures. She cannot reach, that much is plain. It's not like she is naked underneath. Clint barreling out of the way spares that poor fellow — Adams — from facing the wrath of twin, father, and worse. Singled out, then, she trudges after him faster than someone in heels should go. She drops into the car and buckles up, leaning over such the diaphanous, wispy skirts reveal a glint of black. What girl goes to a black tie affair with a combat knife strapped to her leg? That one.

Then it's to the maelstrom that is traffic. Her irritation for this will not last for long. "Is this traffic stopping you?" An honest question, accented heavily enough by her Eastern European accent, falls into the space. "We can get through?"


"Nah, we'll get through." Clint does, indeed, drive like a mad man for a time even as he keys the siren and the dashboard emergency light that flares to life once they're out on the street. Not that that entirely helps, considering how blithely unaware much of the drivers in New York can be. But it helps having pretty good reflexes and being a bit free with shifting lanes.

It's around a corner that they roar, and crazily enough they're not the first SHIELD vehicle to make the target location as another pulls up at just about the same time. A few police vehicles are also in the vicinity, though the officers seem to be a bit wary of entering the besieged studio.

Clint screeches to a halt and barrels out, holding up his ID and flashing it at the officers as he hollers at them, "Secure a perimeter, don't let anyone in or out unless they got IDs like, this? Got it? Got it. Good."

He hustles towards the front door, and the door man who seems to have no idea what's going on inside. He pushes past the double doors, unslinging the retractable bow from his hip and snapping it into the ready position as he makes for the studio's audience entrance.

A gesture is given for Wanda to get set on the other side of the door, "Ever mess with Asgardians?" He asks her off hand. But before she can answer he answer for her, "Most of them are assholes." He says as if an authority, just seconds before he breaches through that door and into the studio proper.


Pity parked traffic, stunned pedestrians, and taxi drivers glued to their radios diminish the ricochet effect of a car through the streets. Wanda twists around in her seat to try and force that damn dress off, but stubbornly it refuses to budge. Fine then. Designer black gown and a claret leather coat will make her very easy to track. She lurches forward when the brakes are struck, arms crossed in front of her to stifle an impact with the dashboard. Precautionary measure.

Clint gets out first, but he's shadowed not three or four steps behind. The first officer to stare her down in expectation of ID gets a look squarely at the agent's back. "He made me come." It's quite the truth.

Her heels click off the ground, going double time to keep up. "The director is unhappy." Truth to that. "They made her unhappy. They are not 'nice.'" Black tide swishing around her legs, she doesn't have any trouble trotting along and casing the joint with a paranoid survival instinct waiting for any kind of trouble. Doors receive the same scrutiny as vents, her gaze saturated by the traces of the Sight to reveal magical signatures as much as spell traps.

He is answered by a shrug. One of her barrettes is pulled out, a tiny spray of carnelians set into it. Odd choice to do her hair with. The knife goes into the other hand, utilitarian and well kept. Back to the wall, she waits for him to go through and falls in with alarming speed and silence. Someone is very much used to shadowing another.


Following Clint and Wanda's car, another pulls up to the perimeter and a very fashionable pump meets the pavement as Director Carter descends on the site. She twists to the other cars, and agents who seem to be following to pick up the pieces and create the calm. A tight-lipped smile curving just at her lips edges tugs on all of Peggy's features and her eyes spy the agents already at work.


Inside there's still the faint glare of that faded teleportation, the unconscious giants still have spotlights square on them up on the center stage. Ed Sullivan is quickly scrambling to his feet and he yells out again, "Security!"

And as if a spell was broken… which Wanda would notice it was, the audience seems to come to life. People are screaming, the ones closest to the stage are scrambling over each other trying to rush the exit and straight at the SHIELD agents.

"Please, evacuate safely. You are no longer in danger, please make your way to the exits safely!" Clint's voice is strong and sharp as he gestures towards people while he holds up his badge. While he's swimming against the current of the crowd, he kneels for a moment to help someone up as they evac, but his pace is leading him towards the stage and Ed Sullivan.

A pair of security guards have rushed the stage and are reaching out to grab the host by his elbows and help him up, only to have him shake them off angrily.

Outside one of the security guards moves up to Peggy. "What's going on here!?" He asks her irately as he looks around at all the other emergency vehicles that are showing up now.


Panicking mob running for limited exits: it's a terrible equation. Wanda's ability to calculate in the mass of fading magic and surging fright remains intact, evidently, and she darts forward into those little gaps emerging between the masses. One better hope she does not get too far ahead of her primary cover.

"Left," she calls over her shoulder, turning sharply sideways. A quickly sketched gesture heightens her connection to the invisible lattice of magic, allowing it to saturate her senses the way a sommelier sniffs the bouquet of wine. Something she'll taste one and remember a while, it's done while squeezing past two sobbing audience members and an angry man looking for something to hit. Won't be her, not tonight.

The host of the show, revered he may be, is far less of interest than the two giants left lying there. She waits, however, until Clint's direction is clear before advancing too far beyond. Her fingers undulate, the knife mostly hidden against her side. It wouldn't do to terrify the mundanes.


"The fuck are those?" Clint asks of her even as he steps past the unconscious and… snoring? Giants. He steps to the security guards and produces his ID again, "Clint Barton, SHIELD. I'm going to need to speak with Mr. Sullivan."

Even as the crowd is evacuating, other agents are coming into the theater hall as various other entrances are secured and they're all coming together in the central area. A young blonde woman nods to Clint as she comes out from behind the curtain, "Back's clear."

A tall man with a mask looks to the side as he steps up onto the stage, "Side entrances are clear. We got nothin'."

But then the guy eyes the giants and says, "Well… other than that."

Clint looks towards Ed Sullivan and asks, "Sir, I'm going to need to ask you to come with me, we're going to have to ask you some questions."

But Ed, known for his volatile temper, is entirely riled. "Who are you? Do you know who I am!"


The security guard that sizes up Peggy earns a wry arch of the Director's eyebrow. She finds her smile again as she absorbs a long breath, using it to steady herself as she reaches for her SHIELD ID and notes, "Peggy Carter, Director of Shield." There, badge produced, "We have jurisdiction here as I believe that some monsters were featured on this evening's rendition of the Ed Sullivan Show, and you require our assistance to get the matter in hand," while the words are polite, the tone has enough of an edge to indicate that Peggy does indeed mean business.

"And you are to cooperate with us as I'm certain that panic has already settled around the studio, yes?" She crosses her arms over her chest, and shifts her weight to meet the guard's gaze. There's no question she's exercising her authority.


The demon-hunter gives the fire giant a wide berth, the ice less so. Where they are least likely to singe or freeze her dress, she stands comfortably. "That, a giant. That… maybe. Fire denizen. I do not have the words in English." A petite shrug of Wanda's shoulders may not be comforting. In the whirl of activity and panic, she is pointedly focused elsewhere.

The tall fellow pointing out the giants gets another of those faint shrugs, more a shift of weight than anything else. Her gaze slips out of focus, and the trail of the teleportation spell locked into. Whatever destination's coded into it, she might well be able to decipher hints. Or not. But someone has to, and it's not going to be Peggy or Clint or Mr. Mustache or Agent Yellow-hair.


At first the security guard is surprised, taken aback, then openly eyeballs Peggy's current… situation. He frowns and rubs at his brow with a finger and grumbles, "Monsters, what are you…"

And that's when the crowd starts to come out the front doors, people breaking for cover and some seeking help from the paramedics on hand that start to offer people blankets to counter the onset of shock.

The guard at least looks chagrined enough to step back and says, "Yes ma'am, anything you need." As the people with the higher pay grades start to handle matters.

Inside, Clint handles Ed Sullivan with a measure of aplomb, "Yes, I'm sure you're terribly important in your little sphere of influence on tv la-la-land, but you just had a dose of perspective I'm betting. So let me put it another way," He squints at Ed Sullivan, "Shut up, you're coming with us."

And for once, Ed Sullivan is speechless.


Peggy is likely to cut through any red tape with fingernails that shine like diamonds and a glare that carbonizes diamonds. Or the opposite. She needs no help.

The juniormost agent finishes up with the examination of the studio on wavelengths without fundamental names. Then she turns, knife slid back into the sheath. With leggings on, no one will be overly scandalized. "I need a decision on them." A gesture is made. "Kill? Remove? Jail?"

This is so far above her paygrade, she's essentially earning herself a holiday upstate. Right? No, wait, Peggy said salary. Woe to the choice of a government consultant.

Mr. Sullivan's bitter words are met with a recriminating gaze. "He needs to check his guests better."


Clint squints over at the unconscious creatures as he motions to one of the junior agents to get Ed moving and out of the way. He looks towards the creatures composed of ice and fire, frowning to himself as he lightly pokes one with the end of his bow. "My initial instinct is pop them," He looks off towards Peggy's direction instinctively, knowing that his first instinct would likely not be hers, "But they might know something."

He pulls out a trio of arrows and puts them in head first into the wooden stage, just in case those giants start to move. He touches a finger to his ear and tells the comm freq, « We're gonna need some way to secure two big packages and get them outta here without the public freaking out.»


The poor people on the other end. They cannot possibly get any sense of the look flung Clint's way, and then she sighs. "That one burns. You cannot put him in a box." And that much she will say. No more than that is possible with so many frightened people around. Clint has it under control. She slips off into the background, and there will Wanda wait until otherwise signaled.


Peggy has commandeered the Studio's security team, and has somehow managed to coordinate their activities alongside SHIELD's. The comms, however, interrupt her efforts, and she presses two fingers to her ear to reply, but the reply doesn't come quickly, in fact, something else has somewhat momentarily, distracted her. «How big?» she inquires lowly.

Her clipped paces drive her along the perimeter, «They got into the building without anyone noticing. Are they really that big?» Screens can be deceiving. Or perhaps, «Barring that, can we get them more secured? We can have our scientists come here and do the work. It's not ideal,» by any stretch of the imagination, «but it would buy us time to brainstorm transportation techniques?»


Looking a bit put upon, Clint shoots a glower at Maximoff… you know the one, the one he reserves for rookies. "Yeah, we'll put him in a pool or something." But then he turns away, taking a few steps off as he touches a finger to his ear to broadcast again.

« Ten, twelve feet, maybe… a ton? No idea. You want me to neutralize them? This is gonna be a production if we want them intact. »

As he says this last he looks over at the Jotun and Muspell, shaking his head with a clear annoyance. « They seem bound by those chains, but I ain't exactly the trusting sort. We need some brains on this. »




Wanda leaves, heading towards Midtown [out].


Wanda has left.


« Not ideal, » Peggy replies as she treads through the lot towards the Studio itself. Her clipped steps are punctuated by the familiar clack of her heels as she rounds the corner to close the distance between herself and Barton. Her eyebrows lift with an unspoken question as she nods once. Her jaw tightens. And then, coolly, almost distantly, something changes in her gaze.

Her body stiffens as she imagines the beats, and, presumably puts together whatever destruction they could engage in. "Neutralize them," she asserts. "We can't possibly risk either of these beasts being unleashed on Manhattan." Her eyebrows lift. "We've already dealt with a damned Hellmouth, and I'm not prepared to put average citizens at risk." Her head turns, "Barton, we have no choice."


Clint looks over at the unconscious creatures, then back towards the empty space away from them as he lightly replies, quieter into the comm. « You sure about this, boss? » He frowns and steps away, lowering his head and his voice slightly. « They might have intel if we can create a connection or something. They're bound… but… » And, to be fair, she can hear it in his voice that he's not entirely comfortable that they're safe either.

He hits a button on his quiver and a few arrowheads cycle through their sequence until a white phosphorous round clicks into place. He withdraws the arrow and sets it to bow string.


Peggy's teeth toy at her bottom lip, and then, decisively, she replies, « Positive. We will, unfortunately, have to leave their intel unspoken. The risk is too great to the people of this city. And I won't deal with an inquest from the American government telling me we didn't do our due diligence, » by finishing the job and not putting civilians at risk.

Carter turns on her heel to tread back towards the perimeter.


Clicking the comm freq closed, Clint frowns to himself and shakes his head as he draws back to his cheek. He takes aim with the white phosphorous arrow and calmly squares up opposite the bound Jotun. A small shake of his head is given as he murmurs quietly to himself, "Sorry, buddy. But them's the breaks."

His eyes narrow, and the arrow flies.

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