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93 Lemurian Star
🕑 Added 2025-05-30 18:15:01 +0000 UTCThe Quinjet raced over the vast, dark waters of the Indian Ocean as it headed towards the Lemurian Star. Rhodey sat in the pilot’s seat, one hand on the stick, the other flicking through flight diagnostics. In the copilot’s seat, Tony Stark looked anything but calm. He fidgeted with the nav controls, tapping in new satellite links, his leg bouncing restlessly. Despite the holographic interface glowing in front of him, his eyes kept flicking to the rear of the aircraft.
Behind them, seated in silence, were Harry, Clint, Natasha, and Steve. Each clad in matte black combat gear, stripped of all insignia and tech that might give away who they were. No vibranium shields. No wands. No bows. No Widow’s Bite.
They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.
Steve Rogers sat nearest the ramp, upright, eyes closed, hands resting on his knees like a soldier in meditation. Next to him, Natasha Romanoff methodically checked the straps on her thigh rig. Clint Barton, arms folded, leaned against the side panel with his head tilted back, chewing on a piece of gum. Across from them, Harry Potter sat still, gloved hands resting on his lap, eyes forward.
They were a wall of silence. Not out of nerves. But because professionals didn’t waste words.
They had done this before. All of them. In jungles. In city streets. In warzones that didn’t exist on any map. This was just another op. And this time, it wasn’t about making a statement. It was about slipping in, extracting the data, and disappearing without anyone ever knowing who was there.
No capes. No glory. No mistakes. Only execution.
“Alright, people listen up!” Tony barked, spinning his seat around theatrically. He slapped the side of the console like it was a podium and threw on his best drill sergeant impression. Gravel in his voice, posture rigid, chin up like he was about to lead them into a Normandy beach landing. “Eyes forward, backs straight, and no slouching, Rogers, I see you.”
The overhead display dropped from the ceiling of the Quinjet, casting a blue glow over the dark cabin. A 3D schematic of the Lemurian Star flickered to life, rotating slowly above the table between them.
“Your mission, should you choose to accept it, which you will because I built this whole infiltration kit and I’m emotionally invested, is to board the Lemurian Star, bypass security, and extract the algorithm from the ship’s mainframe.” He jabbed a finger toward the glowing projection.
He started pacing in the tight space, clearly enjoying himself way too much. “According to SHIELD’s last update, the ship’s running a light security detail. Routine patrol, standard rotations. Nothing we can’t handle. But—” he paused for dramatic effect, raising a finger “—we don’t know if there’s anyone else on board. No visuals, no scans. So eyes up, triggers tight.”
Tony stopped in front of the team, placing both hands on his hips like he was auditioning to lead a military musical. “The key word here is stealth. This isn’t a show of force. This is smoke and mirrors. Sleight of hand. We want this to look like a mercenary op. Quick, precise, and absolutely, unequivocally not the Avengers.”
He stepped back and clasped his hands behind his back like he’d just finished a TED Talk. “Understood?”
No one responded. Four cold, professional stares met him like they were already halfway through the mission in their heads.
“I said, understood?” Tony barked, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet for dramatic effect.
Silence. Just four pairs of eyes stared back at him, unmoved.
Tony deflated instantly, dropping the drill sergeant act with a groan. “I mean, a ‘sir, yes sir’ wouldn’t kill any of you, you know. Just once. For morale.”
Clint rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat. “Just show us the hardware, Tony.”
Rhodey chuckled from the pilot’s seat, glancing over his shoulder. “Wow. That was brutal. They iced you out so hard, I think I got frostbite.”
Tony shot him a glare. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.”
“Already am,” Rhodey said, grinning.
Muttering something under his breath about “tough crowd” and “no appreciation for theatre,” Tony turned and stomped toward the Quinjet’s small onboard armoury.
“We’re keeping it uniform today,” Tony said, as the lockers hissed open with a soft clunk. “No bows, no spears, no shields, and definitely no wands on the field. We’re going old school.”
Natasha arched a brow. “I thought bows, spears, shields, and wands were old school.”
“You know what I mean,” Tony shot back, pointing a gloved finger at her before continuing. “We’re talking boots-on-the-ground, plausible-deniability, black-ops-level old school. So, say hello to your dates for the evening.”
He gestured theatrically as the weapons slid into view, locked into magnetic racks along the wall.
“Primary loadout: Remington ACR. Custom-built by our friends at Magpul and Remington, but tweaked by yours truly, for extra reliability. I’ve swapped in a titanium-nitride-coated bolt for smoother cycling, added an integrated recoil dampener in the stock, and replaced the trigger assembly with something crisp. She’s so smooth, you’ll think she’s whispering sweet nothings with every shot.”
He reached up and pulled one from the rack, offering it to Steve, who took it without a word.
“Red-dot holographic sight, with a low-light auto-adjust sensor. Suppressed barrel, naturally. Subsonic ammo, forty rounds per mag. You hit what you aim at, and you don’t wake the neighbours doing it.”
Tony turned to the next piece. “Sidearm: SIG P227 .45 ACP. Heavy, but dependable. I swapped the standard grips for custom rubberized polymer, sweat-resistant, frost-resistant, and they look damn cool. Extended mags, twelve rounds. Oh, and you’ll notice the trigger break’s been shaved down to just under four pounds.”
He placed one in each of the small arms trays as they slid forward.
“Also, because I’m a softie: Kevlar Mark IV tac-vests with ceramic trauma plates. Reinforced shoulder seams, triple-stitched, light as hell. Gas masks are M50S, triple-seal edge, dual canisters. Filters good for everything from crowd-control to tear gas to some of the nastier stuff we’ve run into lately.”
He gave a final look over the gear with something approaching pride. “Everything’s non-traceable. Serial numbers wiped. No RFID tags. To the world, you’re ghosts.”
He turned, flashing a grin. “Any questions?”
Silence.
Natasha was already strapping on her vest. Clint was reviewing the sidearm. Steve was checking the optic alignment. And Harry was calmly adjusting the stock of his rifle.
Tony sighed. “I live with gods and assassins. No one even humours me anymore.”
Rhodey smirked from the cockpit. “You're finally learning, Tony. It’s not about you.”
Tony then grabbed a plastic magazine loaded with sleek, silvery dart-shaped rounds with translucent reservoirs glinting faintly under the LED lights.
“These,” Tony said, holding one up between two fingers, “are courtesy of our favourite angry scientist. From Banner with Love.”
He slid the magazine into one of the rifles with a satisfying click.
Clint leaned in, squinting at the unusual ammo. “Wait, Banner made tranquillizers?”
Tony shrugged. “Oh, he’s tried everything. Neuro-suppressants, high-frequency sonic dissonance, heck, he even meditated in a hyperbaric chamber once. But none of it worked. Turns out the best way to control the Hulk is to stay perpetually Angry. Very zen.”
He flipped a small diagnostic screen on the side of the rifle, showing dosage and pressure readouts. “Anyway, these babies are a happy accident. What you're looking at is 0.5 millilitres of HN serum per dart. Banner calls it Hulk Neutralisation Serum. I call it 'Highly Napping.'”
Steve picked up a magazine and examined the darts. “Non-lethal?”
“Instant unconsciousness,” Tony confirmed. “One hit drops a full-grown adult male in under four seconds. Two hits and you’ll be sleeping through next Tuesday.”
Natasha slid a mag into her SIG. “Any side effects?”
“Maybe a mild headache and some exceptionally weird dreams, but nothing fatal. Unless you shoot someone in the eye, in which case I take no responsibility.”
Harry gave Tony a look as he inspected the serum chamber inside his ACR. “And these are safe to use with standard barrel pressure?”
“Completely,” Tony said. “I modified the bolt carrier group to handle the softer recoil curve. Subsonic propulsion, silenced, accurate up to a hundred meters. You could take down an entire security team without them realising their coffee break’s been cancelled.”
Rhodey’s voice crackled in from the cockpit. “So you finally made a gun that doesn’t kill people. Banner must be proud.”
Tony smirked. “He hates it. Thinks it’s unethical that I weaponised his failures. But I say, better a nap than a body count.” He gave the weapons one last look, then turned to the team. “So yeah. We're posing as mercs. But we don’t leave corpses behind. This isn’t war.”
No one replied. They were already loading mags, checking optics, and strapping down gear.
The team finished suiting up in silence. Tactical gloves were adjusted, straps cinched tight, sidearms holstered. Everyone wore their gas masks on hide their faces to hide their identity. Clint double-checked his optics. Steve tested the weight of his rifle. Natasha locked her gear.
Tony stepped forward, holding out a small case lined with matte black canisters the size of soda cans.
“Last gift before the drop,” he said, flipping open the lid. “HN-Aerosol Dispersal Units—aka, sleepy-time smoke grenades.”
He handed one to each of them. “Pull the pin, roll it in, and everyone in a ten-foot radius gets hit with a fine mist of Banner’s Hulk-Nap formula. Inhale once, and you’re out cold in thirty seconds. Two breaths? You're drooling on the floor. Roomful of agents, problem solved.”
Natasha examined hers, weighing it in her palm. “Tactical dispersal range?”
“Roughly twelve feet enclosed, eight in open air,” Tony replied. “It’s not a substitute for CQC, but if you’re outnumbered or boxed in, it buys time.”
He handed over their final equipment, compact earpieces and short-range encrypted radios. “Comm range is tight, only half a klick, to avoid signal triangulation. Audio-only. No names. No chatter.”
Tony stepped back and gave them one last look.
“You’re not gods, icons, or symbols today. You’re ghosts. Make it clean. Make it fast. No blood, no noise, no witnesses.”
Steve gave him a single nod.
Natasha and Clint were already slotting the grenades into custom loops on their belts.
Harry slid his earpiece in and clicked it twice for confirmation.
They were ready.
Rhodey’s voice came in from the cockpit. “ETA to target: six minutes.”
Tony’s gaze flicked toward the ramp, where ocean spray hissed beneath the night sky. “Showtime.”
Tony clapped his hands once. “Alright, everybody huddle up—”
“I can Apparate us directly to the deck,” Harry offered.
Tony spun on him like a substitute teacher catching a kid about to cheat on a test. “Absolutely not, Potter. We’ve been over this. No magic. No super-speed. No vibranium frisbees. No fireworks.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. “I don’t do fireworks.”
“Not the point,” Tony snapped. He pointed to each of them in turn like he was calling roll. “You’re all parachuting down like regular, unremarkable, non-superhuman beings. Got it? Parachutes go overboard after landing. Leave them behind. Let the scene tell the story we want it to tell.”
Steve folded his arms. “If stealth’s the goal, why not just let Romanoff and me ghost into the control room and be done with it?”
“Because we want it to look like mercs hit this ship, not a tactical god and a redheaded ninja,” Tony replied. “If SHIELD sniffs our scent on this op, we lose the element of surprise and we tip our hand to the people watching us from the shadows.”
“Subtle as ever,” Clint muttered, tightening the straps on his parachute.
“Sir, yes sir,” Harry said with a mock salute and an eye roll.
Tony narrowed his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. “That’s the spirit. Now go play mercenary. Try not to enjoy it too much.”
“Iron Man and War Machine are your cavalry,” Rhodey said over his shoulder, adjusting the Quinjet’s flight path. “If anything goes sideways, we swoop in, light show and all, and ‘save’ the day. Shield agents rescued, mercenary threat neutralised. No questions asked.”
Tony pointed a thumb at Rhodey. “See? He gets it. We’re the loud, flashy distraction in case things get noisy.”
Natasha checked the seals on her gloves and looked up with that calm, steely confidence. “Don’t worry. We’ll be ghosts.”
Rhodey smirked. “Just make sure you leave a good mess behind for SHIELD to clean up.”
“Mercenary chic,” Clint muttered. “Got it.”
The quinjet cut across the clouds in silence, just a dark blur against the night sky.
Clint, Steve, Natasha, and Harry stood at the rear ramp, parachutes strapped, gear secured, weapons ready. No words were exchanged. Just subtle nods. The ramp dropped with a hiss.
One by one, they stepped into the void.
Their descent was surgical. Controlled glides, minimal drag, black nylon canopies blending into the starless sky. Below them, the Lemurian Star cut through the Indian Ocean like a ghost ship. no lights, minimal crew movement, and a skeleton security detail on deck.
As the squad drifted lower, each operative raised their suppressed tranquilliser rifle. Four targets, four high perches, four silenced thwips. The lookouts dropped without a sound.
Silent landings followed. One by one, boots hit the steel deck near the ship's bow. In perfect sync, they cut their chutes and let them pool on the deck.
Without a word, the four split into two pairs. Harry and Natasha veering portside, Clint and Steve sweeping starboard. They flowed across the deck in sync, covering angles, clearing corners, checking blind spots. Flashlights remained off. Only the low hum of the ship’s engine and the rhythmic slap of waves against steel accompanied them.
The patrols were sparse. Lone SHIELD operatives making lazy circuits. One by one, they were dropped, darted to the neck, pressure point takedown, chokeholds, and unconscious before they could react. No alarms, no struggle, no witnesses.
Natasha gestured a two-finger point ahead, then tapped her shoulder. Harry moved to high cover while she advanced low. Behind them, Clint ghosted behind a bulkhead while Steve circled a stairwell. Doors were breached silently, guards neutralized before they knew anyone was aboard.
By the time the two teams rendezvoused at the superstructure, the upper deck was clear.
With a series of crisp hand signals. Clint took point, eyes sharp behind his goggles, carbine raised. Steve followed. Natasha moved in third, cat-quiet, eyes sweeping every shadow. Harry brought up the rear, his gaze constantly scanning their six.
They entered the stairwell as a single unit.
Footfalls muted. Breathing controlled. Weapons tight against the shoulders.
Clint ascended the steps slowly, one boot over the other, barrel tracking the angle of the stairs. Steve mirrored the movement, watching the next landing. They paused at the first door. Clint held up two fingers—contacts. He tilted his head. Steve nodded.
The door opened. Inside, two guards sat at a console, unaware. Clint and Steve fired, two darts, two necks. Both men slumped before they even stood.
They advanced floor by floor, sweeping side rooms, clearing hallways. A pair of patrols came down a side corridor. Steve motioned, and Natasha slid forward. Two strikes, two bodies down. Tranquilliser darts silenced any protest.
Harry moved last, pausing briefly to scan a flickering monitor.
By the time they reached the level just below the control centre, the ship’s upper decks were clear. Every room, every hall. Every threat neutralised.
Once, they reached the final landing. The control room lay just beyond a reinforced glass partition, softly lit in red and green from the consoles inside. Through the window, they saw a skeleton crew monitoring satellite diagnostics, unaware of what was coming.
Clint gave a quick signal. Natasha nodded.
Two clicks, two metal cylinders rolled through the lower hatch, bouncing softly across the floor.
Hisssss.
A pale, almost translucent vapour filled the room. Within seconds, the crew began coughing and swaying. One by one, they slumped over their terminals or crumpled to the ground.
Five minutes later, the fog settled.
Natasha stepped forward, opened the door, and swept inside with her weapon raised. Harry, Steve, and Clint followed, securing all exits and checking each unconscious body for vital signs.
Natasha was already at the main terminal, fingers flying across the keyboard.
Steve stood by the door, watching the corridor. Clint moved to the surveillance feed, scrubbing the past fifteen minutes. Harry placed jamming nodes along the wall, blocking any outbound signals.
Once the progress bar hit 100%. Natasha ejected the drive, slotted it into a secure pouch, and gave a sharp nod.
“Package secured,” she signalled without speaking a word.
They moved out in formation.
They reached the poop deck without incident, the ocean wind lashing against their suits as they secured their rappel lines to the railings.
One by one, they descended. Clint first, followed by Steve, then Natasha, with Harry bringing up the rear. The dark waters churned below, swallowing them without a sound.
A hundred meters out, just beneath the wave line, the Quinjet’s cloaked silhouette hovered in place.
As soon as all four surfaced and gave the signal, the hatch opened and the recovery rig extended. A brief burst of water, four ascending lines and moments later, they were back aboard, soaked but mission-complete.
The hatch sealed. The jet climbed.
Only then did they finally remove their helmets, breath visible in the cold cabin air.
"Any chatter on the airwaves?" Harry asked, shaking water from his hair as he glanced toward the cockpit.
Tony, still seated at the console, monitored multiple encrypted bands. “Nothing yet. But give it thirty minutes, SHIELD will be in full panic mode.”
Harry nodded, eyes narrowing. “Keep monitoring. If there’s a leak in the system, we might catch it when they start scrambling.”
"Already on it,” Tony replied. “With any luck, our little parasite won’t be able to help itself.”
The Quinjet banked hard to the west, disappearing into the dark horizon, leaving behind a ghost ship and a growing mystery in its wake.
Comments
Thorin Bellville
It was a great chapter
Sky Pheonix
Author's Note chapter 93: This chapter was ridiculously fun to write. Having these 4 highly skilled army people, I could also have them do a tactical scene to send Hydra scrambling. The build for this story is doing a who can out spy who in this story. The idea of Tony being a drill sergeant came up due to my watching clips of Forest Gump recently. I don't know how the gun naming came out, though. I am no weapons expert, just a quick Google and YouTube search to educate myself. Anyways, I hope you had fun and see you next time.
