2012-08-28 JET FUEL, MORON!

Twilight below, sunset above: the flight deck of the Helicarrier is populated, as ever, by the requisite personnel. At the moment, west is aft and the wind's just shifted easterly-- bad news for the man sitting out of the way, sitting on the edge of the deck with his legs dangling over Manhattan, leaning on the rail with a cigarette and a flask of vodka, head turned to watch the setting sun.

The shifting breeze carries his smoke -- cheap English cigarettes that smell like the bottom of a gas can -- across the deck in the direction of the control tower, not /quite/ broken up enough to avoid notice at the main entrance belowdecks.

Grimacing, Wisdom pinches the cigarette out: sometimes one doesn't want to be found, and a scent trail someone with a cold can follow is not the way to go about doing that. He picks himself up, brushes his suit off, and takes a swig from the flask as he turns around to start back.

The great ninja knew thousands of secrets for sneaking up on people unawares. Ogun knew several thousand; Kitty Pryde probably has a hundred, a hundred and fifty at her disposal. Then there's that mythical man-bat thing that people in Gotham are terrified of, all that nonsense about how he's made of living shadow and whatnot.

Nick Fury is a man who has at most one or two really good tricks. What makes him Ogun's equal is the fact that, unlike the ninja, every single one of Nick Fury's tricks work. If he hasn't used it to snap at least three necks then it isn't a trick, it's just good luck, and even after three cervical dislocations it's not a good trick, it's just a trick. The good tricks require at least another five.

One of Nick Fury's greatest tricks for sneaking up on someone: walk up behind them when they're standing on a busy carrier deck and can't hear a Goddamn thing anyway. When Wisdom turns around to start back, Fury is already there, waiting, as if he's been there for quite a while. Perhaps he was waiting to see how long it would take the luckless son of a bitch to notice he was being tested.

"Under United Nations memorandum number one one three eight twelve slash zee ay four, Commitment to a Smoke Free Workplace, I am obligated to remind you, Agent ... Whoever You Are, that SHIELD facilities are no smoking zones. And under the laws of common sense I'm obligated to remind you there is no alcohol aboard the Helicarrier. When this thing plows into the Statue of Liberty -- and given the kind of life we lead that is a question of /when/ and not /if/ -- it will /not/ be because someone's blowing a point one oh on the Breathalyzer. Do you have any questions about either United Nations Smoke-Free Workplace Policy, or SHIELD regulations against liquor on the Helicarrier, agent?"

There is *no question* that Agent Whoever-He-Is notices Fury; there is equally no question that Fury Is Not Who He Expected. Nay, the Director is like unto the Spanish Inquisition, and the already-pale man, badge clipped to his shirt pocket and half-hidden by his suit jacket, flushes a curious mottled red. He at least doesn't do anything stupid like try to hide /anything at all/. "Sir. Yes, sir," he manages to get out, if not smoothly, then at least with an English accent. "On the former, sir. Has the wording of the memorandum been updated since the ruling in nought-six? It specified indoor workplaces, sir-- I was under the impression that in that, at least, I was--"

The words fail, caught in the Briton's rapidly accelerating speech; he shuts his mouth, swallows, and straightens. And then the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, though it's very quickly suppressed. "No, sir. I was wondering how long it would take before someone ripped me a new one, sir."

"Agent, the Security Council devolved its authority over SHIELD to the UN World Health Organization, which devolved to the Special Rapporteur for Governmental Health. In oh-six the Special Rapporteur released their policy which, apparently, was such an affront to the delicate sensibilities of the French delegation to the United Nations -- an affront which, I am told, had absolutely nothing to do with the Special Rapporteur taking the French ambassador's lunch money in a poker game the night before -- that the French used their permanent seat on the Security Council to add an amendment to a procurement bill amending the oh-six circular. Also to authorize the purchase of two hundred pounds of macadamia nuts for the entertainment use of U.N. peacekeepers in Senegal, which I found to be rather amusing."

The one-eyed man suddenly, abruptly scowls, the gives Wisdom a cuff upside the head: not enough to cause pain, but enough to convey his point (and, along the way, grossly violate Circular #33253/A, Guidelines on the Use of Physical Force). "YOU'RE STANDING ON A HELICARRIER DECK AND THERE'S JET FUEL ALL AROUND US, YOU MORON!"

The whack causes the twenty-something to quarter-turtle, grimacing, flask of vodka lifted in the air; he looks more disgruntled at the yelling, but straightens up again and offers the alcohol to Director Fury. "Sir, you should know that I'm personally a far greater fire hazard than a cigarette." His face has gotten an expression Nick will no doubt recognise right away: 'blank the fuck out of that shit so your superior officer can't actually see how annoyed you are or it'll be the worse for you'. "If a cigarette concerns you when smoked to port--" 'the side opposite the refuelling storage tanks', he doesn't insult the Director's intelligence by pointing out, "--then I should disembark immediately."

Despite himself, though, his eyes flicker back to Fury's one, letting his morbid curiosity show. "Entertainment use of macadamia nuts? Fucking well hope they were just eating them. Sir."

"If you were to light yourself up out here, I'd throw you over the edge as a clear and present threat to ongoing carrier operations. When you light a cigarette up out here, I'm tempted to do the exact same thing. There is no smoking in the facility and there is /no smoking on the deck around all the aircraft being loaded with jet fuel./ All it takes is one person being stupid and all of us have the real interesting time of fighting the _Forrestal_ again at thirty thousand feet."

(In 1967 the aircraft carrier _Forrestal_, CVA-59, had a single errant spark as the result of someone ignoring proper electrical safety precautions. This led to a power surge in an unrelated circuit. That led to the accidental firing of a Zuni missile. That led to the missile impacting an aircraft that was mercifully unmanned while awaiting fueling. A young John McCain was on the deck of the _Forrestal_ and almost died in the resulting explosion. One hundred thirty-four sailors died putting out the fire and saving the _Forrestal_ from sinking.

Of course, one is likely to only remember this if one was alive and engaged in military operations in 1967... which automatically discounts most of the world. But Nick Fury remembers. He remembers the smell of burning flesh and the screams of the dying. It smelled like a mixture between kerosene and a barbecue, and the dying sailors made the exact same screams and noises the Germans made in WW2 when Fury hit their bunkers with flamethrowers.)

These are the things that Fury thinks about at night, and he sleeps very well.

But he has no desire to repeat his experience on the _Forrestal_. Especially not at thirty thousand feet.)

"Agent," Fury growls in a tone that makes it clear he's a hairsbreadth away from deciding that someone is about to be supercargo, "there is no smoking on the damn flight deck. If I see it again, I will throw you over the edge and attribute it to a really bad case of turbulence."

Nick Fury reaches out for the flask, grabbing it and the offending cigarettes. "Besides. You're smoking Gaulois Blondes. What are you, a damn masochist or something?" he says as he pops one of the yellow-wrapped French cigarettes in his mouth, but doesn't light up. No, no. Instead he just puts on the backpack that he brought with him, checks the straps to ensure they're tight. The next step in his ritual is to pull out his most trusted Zippo, but not to open it -- no, no, there will be no smoking on the flight deck.

Other SHIELD officers take flying cars to commute down to the city below. But Nick Fury parachute inserts every damn time, high-altitude low-opening insertions into the busiest city on earth, just because he can.

He steps off the edge of the helicarrier without another word to Pete. True to his word, he doesn't smoke while he's on the flight deck.

He waits until his parachute opens, at five hundred feet over Central Park, to light up the stolen Gaulois Blondes and to take a swig from the appropriated flask of vodka.

"Gonna be a good day," he calls out to no one in particular. "Already off to a good start."

It's at this point that Wisdom leans over the side of the railing and watches-- and holds his breath-- and when Fury's roughly a thousand feet below, he estimates the Directory probably can't hear him. So it's not until then that he lets the breath out in explosive laughter, laced with relief and something very like extraordinarily pleased awe.

It's not until he /finally/ gets his knees to solidify from the jelly laughing had made them that he drags himself down to go get Ramsey to flying-car him down so he can buy another couple of packs. And also wave his hands around enthusiastically because what the hell.