8727/0-8-4 Files: 077

0-8-4 Files: 077
Date of Scene:	18 November 2021
Location:	Harbourside
Synopsis:	Another 084 is on the loose, and it's up to Daisy and Jane to stop it.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Daisy Johnson

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Jane Foster has posed:
The hard thing about tracking down 0-8-4s comes from the lack of intelligence. HYDRA doesn't exactly announce "For sale: one stolen SSR 0-8-4. Comes in original packaging. $500,000." They don't do rummage sales or open up a storage unit for someone to roam by and bid, like those horrible reality TV shows. Tracking down their traces, even with the aid of the occasional beacon and technology, is more trial-and-error. Emphasis on _error_.

Jane spends more time arranging for intelligence briefings and information about 0-8-4 cases than she does stars, these days, which ays something about priorities. Every time a flagged alert hits her mailbox, each time her phone beeps with that particular signal, it's a moment of her heart leaping into her throat. A chance to make things right. Most of the time, a false lead, a chance update, nothing concrete.

Until it is, and then it's boots on the ground.

Case 0-7-7 barely even gets a name. 0-7-8, related to it and also missing, is //Evergreen//. This one, she's taken to calling //Nightcap// for the limited description on it. So //Nightcap// is on the run, targeted to a drop-off in the industrial trucking facility somewhere in the Starling City Harbourside. Nothing but a scan on a shipping manifest that triggered something, giving them a pretty broad range to work with. The scan signalled delivery to Ardmore Services, a company provides courier and delivery services. Not much to look at either, renting space out of an old ironworks since converted into a bit of office space. For lease signs hang above the dim windows. Loading bays bear five beat-up trucks, all painted a light green that doesn't inspire. Irish name, Irish workers, some of them.

Jane is behind the wheel, because you don't make your very capable Furiae who shakes the world occupy the steering column. She follows the path through a platoon of service alleys and tangled roads stopping abruptly by the shore. "Couldn't they do this at a ski resort? Somewhere nice?"

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Daisy has been going through those reports about the missing 0-8-4s. The danger they pose to SHIELD, but also humanity. Specially in the wrong ones. Yet the worst of it all is that some are even dangerous in the right hands. Which makes this a top priority for SHIELD to tackle on. So when a call comes that one has flagged one of their surveillance nets? It means she is there to go and help.

She is dressed in that now customary Quake outfit, the black and blue, the black boots, the AR visor. It's good being SHIELD, one never lacks tech. ICER is in place and for a change she is riding shotgun today, a tablet on her lap while she goes through the info they got. A glance up at Jane's comment.

"Well, most crime books start with: 'It was a dark, stormy night..'" a grave voice on those last words, "So it's a given that most criminals just don't care for commodity while committing their crimes." a grin to the other Furiae and then she peeks at the tablet again, "I have been running some scans on this company, Ardmore services. They don't seem to have any kind of connection to Hydra, at least none that we have discovered so far..." a beat, "So either Hydra is going cheap and outsourcing their deliveries or ..., what could be at play here? This one was flagged as being with Hydra, right?"

Their truck finally coming to a stop means Daisy opens the door and jumps out, looking over the shore, and then across to the beat-up trucks.

Jane Foster has posed:
Peggy Carter allocated resources to Jane, and based on her pursuit of the 0-8-4s, it's become quite a private matter of importance. Recovering those objects may be her stepping stones to promotion. The main concern lies in the human risk; civilian cost when one of those particularly dubious objects explodes onto the social scene. The last thing anyone needs is a social media video capturing their last moments playing with a little device that blows up in their face.

The item description on file isn't helpful, partly corrupted by HYDRA on the way out and a bit because the thing is an oddity. "Night Cap" has unknown technological provenance with a distinct bit of artistry that resonates with Hindu and Buddhist motifs, even if the design is basically an unremarkable Victorian hourglass. Materials? Metal alloy, partly rhodium, rest unknown. Glass tempered to ultra-hardness. Dating hasn't been helpful, going back to 1860 at least. The main point of problem: //Dangerous to practitioners with advanced mental abilities// essentially boils down to "really bad for psychics." None of those around, right?

Jane slows, taking in the dark array of buildings. "This one wouldn't interest private collectors much, would it? I'm not sure why they arranged for a delivery company. Maybe they cottoned on to being spotted," she says, not liking the fact much. Her hand on the wheel shifts, guiding the SHIELD SUV into the long, scraggly road fronting the row of warehouses. The headlights strobe over pitted asphalt. Worn signs say no parking, delivery drop-offs only, totally ignored by every other vehicle, sparse as they are. Why not her? She glides the SUV for a spot, eyeing Daisy briefly.

"That's the part that concerns me. Are they a new enterprise or someone tricked into transporting something? I am certain the octopus people use the postal service just like us."

Ardmore doesn't exactly look open but that means nothing. Couriers work outside normal hours a lot of the time.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
"Whatever it may be it's something we will figure out once we investigate. And I certainly wouldn't send sensitive SHIELD material through UPS!" Daisy grinning back at Jane as she turns the tablet off, setting it on the dashboard, eyes now taking the surroundings, the apparently closed place along with the various trucks.

"At least we might be immune to this one though, unless you developped some mental abilities ever since you woke up from that sleep, mmm?" Daisy's gaze now sharper as she watches Jane, closely, perhaps looking for a reaction. Oh yes, there are suspicions. Yet that perusal is short-lived as they do have a mission to do here.

And when Jane finds a parking spot by Ardmore? It means it's go time. "Lets go through the front door?" She asks, pointing over to where she finds an entrance and getting out of the truck, even as she lets her senses expand.. Just in case this is some Hydra ambush.

Jane Foster has posed:
"What, you thought it was all wrapped up with a bow? Never. We're SHIELD, not Batman." The Bat would probably have it figured out after about eight seconds. For the rest of those mortals, work. She scoffs softly while setting the SUV into park, doing a final check on the vehicle to make sure nothing valuable looks left out. "I'd say we stand less of a risk than someone telepathic, which means most people. I hardly expect we can say it's a perfectly innocent object you stick on your mantle. Just imagine having that out, your daughter brings her girlfriend home and she passes out. One way to search for unlikely targets?" The grim tiding of a smile touches her lips.

Time to go; that means locking the car, bringing her bag, not in that order. An ICER is under her coat, which prominently doesn't say SHIELD and looks like a hoodie. One day she'll wear the uniform! One day.

Dark hair scraped back, she hardly looks too impressive. "The space is divided in two at least. Beyond the loading bays, there should be a fire exit. The far left side of the building is up for lease, which gives us an alternative in if we need it." Not that any signs of activity come visibly or shakily from the unoccupied space. The windows are dark, and the clamouring of subtle vibrations originate where people move around in the warehouse floor on the right side of the building. Wind blowing and buffeting the waterfront doesn't help, adding frustrating white noise and buffeting them with leaves.

Distinguishing the total number of people in there is tough; probably a crew of ten or more, not including drivers swilling coffee or waiting for boxes to load.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
"Good news. Doesn't seem like we are about to get ambushed." Daisy says over to Jane after spending a few moments in concentration, keeping up with Jane while they approach the place. "Just the usual you'd find on a place like this. Seems like they are open though, or at least working inside."

No undercover for Daisy on this one considering the SHIELD suit she is wearing, a tap on the side of her goggles while she takes a look at the trucks. "Running the plates through SHIELD database..." not that she expects to find much.

"Most people are on the warehouse side though." She points out, "And if we want answers might be good to go and talk with them, unless you prefer for us to skulk in through the left building."

Jane's op, so her choice too!

Jane Foster has posed:
"Two women randomly walking into a warehouse afterhours never ends well on TV," Jane quips. "Dark and stormy night. Rolling up with a flat tire, the women seek shelter. We're sure this isn't the Hotel California of Starling City?"

Business may be a problem, since they legitimately have none being there, but worse could happen.

The wind pushes her around, and she leans into it. "Coming around the back isn't going to gain us anything. Straight in, then, and ask them for a shipping manifest and any drivers that are slated to go out, shall we?"

The records on the plates aren't great, not bad. A few hav been cited repeatedly for speeding, double-parking, a litany of misdemeanors except in Virginia. Because speeding is a freaking felony there. Paid up fines, no real issues, though the place doesn't feel busy or too successful, more of a local joint occasionally serving Gotham.

The front door is, naturally, locked. A grungy old blind keeps anyone from looking in. No kind of office hours are quite posted, which leads Jane to politely knock. The response isn't forthcoming very fast, as it's not likely anyone normally shows up that early. So, another knock, this time louder.

And then the penny drops, a shrill note. Dangerous for psychics. What about women conjured from faraway places? Cripes.

"Open up, gentlemen!" she calls, looking back to Daisy. This is lovely and awkward. Do you /say/ you're a spy? "We have business with you!"

A truck starts about a minute later. Not suspicious?

Daisy Johnson has posed:
The frontal approach is always a good choice! Daisy approves. Unless they get shot at. That wouldn't be nice. She grins at Jane when she goes on announcing them and calling for someone to come open up. "Oooo, I am getting such Elliot Ness vibes out of you." though it doesn't seem they are smuggling liquor in there.

And with a truck starting up? Yea, someone is trying to run.

"Seems it's time we knock a bit harder." Some intention on her voice and she looks at that lock. It's the first to go, the thing vibrating to smitherens before she lifts one hand up and points it at the door, it starting to bend and twist until she makes it fly off it's hinges. A bit too much? Well, maybe she wants to send a message that it's unwise to run!

But criminals are often unwise.

Jane Foster has posed:
Not worth kicking down the door, really, since Jane probably could hurl herself at full force and bounce right off. She impatiently waits with the grace of someone with time to spend, her glance over to Daisy again marking the seconds. "Hurry up and wait is an art here, isn't it?" The amused tone is a truth between the pair of them. She gets to step back just in time before the door implodes in a shower of glass, wood, and ugly blinds. The shape smashing into a dull foyer knocks over a pair of unfriendly folding chairs that clearly announce 'we don't like guests.' The little reception area is showered in leaves and the cold air.

Someone getting close enough to look around is going to suffer a little bit; not much but a little, seeing the destruction from close up. "Hey!" he shouts, arms going up. "What the hell! You can't be doing that to a man's business!"

Sure as hell they can, and it's Jane sliding her hand to the familiar weight of her ICER, holding calm more or less the same. "SHIELD," she announces, without missing a beat. "We need to have a talk. Agent, let's go round up the staff and have a conversation. Sir, we're going to need you to make sure your dispatcher recalls anyone deciding to head out."

Like that God-awful racket from the warehouse of a dropped box.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
"Dunno, seemed like you guys were being hard of hear and not opening up." Daisy says all too casually at the man that came to see what all the ruckus was about. Her hand is on her ICER too but she doesn't take it off it's holster just yet. At least until they start getting shot at or something. But so far they don't seem the type.

A sharp nod is given back to Jane at the request to gather up the rest of the people. "You heard her. It won't take long and we will get off your hair in no time..." hopefully the man isn't bald or this would sound bad, ".. we heard a truck starting while we were knocking, as we said it's better that no one tries to leave. This is a matter of national security."

National security. Words so loosely spoken sometimes. But in this case they are in the right!

She starts making her way further into the area to start doing the round-up.

Jane Foster has posed:
The poor man makes a fairly indignant sound when backing up until his back brushes the wall. The tattooed marks under his sleeves and at his thick neck suggest some degree of counterculture, but he isn't running for it. Swearing, he looks from Daisy and Jane to the rest. Time to move, then, which means shuffling back and not trying to expose himself to getting shot. "I don't get paid enough for this BS." His boots tramp as he enters into the warehouse, a short distance and through a more soundproof door. "Hey, Olafson! What the hell you doing with that box, looking for your mama's panties? Get that up! Where's Juarez? Get his shifty ass out here."

Commands get thrown with alarming provocation and efficiency, leaving a few ear-burning comments about assembling, but they aren't the Avengers and rolling around this late into the day isn't their primary concern. But they slowly assemble, and Jane isn't going to make a point of going slow. The reception area behind them brings both women into the chaos of a place full of pallets, stacked high and saran-wrapped, more of them in great clumps waiting to be delivered here or there. No rhyme or reason; some of the stuff is industrial, a lot commercial. Some boxes could be appliances. One man unloading a heavy plastic container has it spilled over on the side, the crash heard earlier, the contents spilled out in smaller bright blue and white boxes.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Far from Daisy to judge someone due to their tattoos. We all have our secrets and likes! Just never ask her if/where she has them. Secrets! Yet the rest of the man is measured. The posture, the backing up to the wall. It suggests he isn't looking for a confrontation, at least not just yet which suits Daisy just fine, "Nobody does." this about being paid enough, then she moving after him, eyes scanning for that Olafson..

"Well, this is one large warehouse." Daisy comments over to Jane, arms folding together and she wandering close to one of the boxes. "Well boys, to me it seems we got two choices here. Either we are all stuck in here day and night searching through all these boxes or you can save us all some time by telling us about suspicious activity.."

A moment taken when Daisy leans closer to Jane so as to whisper. "Unless we got something to detect the 084. Do we have any of those?"

Jane Foster has posed:
"No, we never thought to stick a Tile to Evergreen, and it would have been helpful if we did. Unfortunate lack of foresight. I imagine the bosses wiped that out during the hostile takeover, though, so we couldn't assess what they did," murmurs Jane. She keeps a professional demeanor, frowning at the assembled workers that don't look too impressed by a pair of law enforcement personnel showing up. They aren't in a rush and sullenly gather together. The rough shuffle finally produces Juarez, a guy in his mid-30s, wheeling up a bin stocked by cardboard boxes.

"How we supposed to get any work done if you're dragging us out?" Juarez grumbles, tugging the flattened collar of his shirt. "Let's get them divided. You lot, up to the fellow in the brown shirt, are with me. The rest, with Agent Johnson." She nods to Daisy. "We're looking for a recent manifest and need to find out where you've stored that. Help us find it and we're out of your hair." A digital copy is accessible to Daisy, and the numbers on the scan a little blurry, but not impossible to make out. Olafson is assigned to Daisy's troupe, and he still looks sadly at the dropped box. Nothing too discernably weird there, at least. Mostly machine parts.

Jane pulls her group to the side, plugging along with giving them the order number. Naturally someone's going to have to wander off to /find/ one of the handscanners, plugging in the numbers. "Says here it should be in bay 38."

Daisy Johnson has posed:
"Heard one of your vans starting up when we were ringing in. Hope no one ran while we were getting here?" This Daisy asks those in her group while wondering to the other side to check out the manifest. Yet she still pauses by the box Olafson dropped, a raised brow at him. "It's just parts. What were you wanting to build up with that?" she asks with a faint smile, "Not a bomb I hope!" casual tone to her but she is all too attentive to what's around her, and to Olafson's reactions. Just to see what she fishes out.

Gaze then goes to her tablet, checking the digital copy and showing it to the rest of them, "Any of this familiar to you?" she questions about the order number.

<Bay 38?> She confirms on comms, then asks the rest. "Lead on towards bay 38."

Jane Foster has posed:
Daisy's lot give her a vaguely unamused look. "Lady, we move a thousand boxes a day, easy. I don't remember none of them unless they fall and we have to fill out paperwork. Don't no one have the time for that," one says.

Their attitude is put out but not immediately hostile, the sort of airs someone gets when they're busy working and get interrupted. Olafson meets that question from her about a bomb with a straight-out look. "Wasn't EOD, ma'am. Navy, and no, I wasn't building anything. Trying to get these out and loaded before morning." He stiffly stands there, looking away to the side in embarrassment and anger. His fists clench. Pride is a funny thing, especially with all attention on his slip-up. "Geez, just an accident. I'm fixin' it."

The path to bay 38 isn't far away, with it stored somewhere in the middle of the warehouse racks, towards the front. It's about eight feet up, well within reach of a forklift that's been left at its station when called in. 37 and 39 are occupied by thickly wrapped boxes, and so is 28 underneath it but 38 is empty, scraped clean. Not much dust there, suggesting the heavy box that resided there was pulled off and away.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
"Yea, I get you guys. I never like when people interrupt me when I am knee deep in my own work too." Daisy says with some sympathy on her tone. Really, so many people that just come to her office when she is trying to work, like triple reports...., or all that programming. And then people come in because their mouse isn't working. Well, have you checked if it's plugged in? Have you?!

She takes a quiet breath to calm herself from such thoughts, because they are arriving at bay 38 and .... <It's empty.> she says on comms.

A glance to the lot with her, a small frown. "Who was handling this area?" she asks, "And where was it loaded to?" a beat, "Can someone get the loading orders for this?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Check the batteries on that wireless mouse. No, Margaret, having an email stuck in email jail is not an emergency, try rebooting. Olafson hangs back while the others crowd around, mostly focusing on picking up the spilled parts.

Juarez is the boss, so he gets the annoying questions about who and what. He grimaces up at the bay. "It'll have a tag out on the scanner. Looks like that's Green," he says after consulting the clunky devices most carry. Digital details slowly and thoroughly get scrolled through. "Tagged out two hours ago, would've been on truck three. Not full, that one, it's due out by 11." Of course, it's not eleven and cargo vans don't leave half-full. Waste of gas, that is. "Three's down in the bay, ain't no problem to walk you over there. Rest of these gents get back to their work or you want a parade of ducks?"

Jane's group has largely been subjected to the same line of questioning: who, what, where. She distills it down to the basics over the comms. <Green works that section and he's a good worker, nothing particularly odd except he likes weed more than he should when he's off. No problems in his probation period or now. Of course, he's not in my group. He with you?>

Which can be confirmed in about three words. No, Mr. Green is not.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
"Uff, what was this programmed on? 386 technology?" Daisy huffs and puffs about the slowness of the process. Really. This is why her online orders are never on time! Archaic programs, that's why. And Margarets that can't use the tech. But breathe in, Daisy. In and out. All's cool. Not anyone's fault that you are the computer wiz over here. A brow arches when it's said it was tagged out two hours ago.

<Tagged out two hours ago. If they got out already they will have a good headstart by now..> A small frown on her expression. The question about Green has her look around. "Is Green around?" the negative responses from the workers has her breathe out.

<Green isn't here either. Might be our man.> A gesture, "Go back to work." she tells the others and then tells Juarez, "Where's the bay at? That way?" She starts running there.

<On my way to the truck bay. Should be truck 3.>

Jane Foster has posed:
Juarez, like many of them, is a pretty lean fellow who can breakaway at a hustle. "Just back here, around the corner. Mind your elbows, the metal frames are sharp." He guides her to the loading docks where the dusty, scratched up pits are large enough for ubiquitous cargo vans to roll up. They're not a big enterprise here, so the vans aren't either, just boxy things ten to fifteen feet long for the most part. Two doors are down, blaring red lights by a pretty rickety setup. The third has a door rolled up, empty, though the van next door is visible through the gap. Juarez's frown deepens. "That isn't right. He was on loading duty but he should have come back with the rest of us. Bet you he's taking a smoke."

A quick survey of the slanted loading area shows an awful lot of cigarette butts, no gentleman. Neither is the dock's link to the road occupied by a smoker, though the stench of diesel hangs in the air.

<They've got tracking on the trucks, GPS navigation. If we can tap into that, we should be able to get a bead, assuming he hasn't ditched it,> Jane supplies, since the archaic system and battering questions about dispatch options has produced some useful information. <We can try calling over the radio, but I don't think it's going to invoke much success. The GPS ping is from their office, meaning we need someone here. Go after it, I can get you directions.>

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Oh, damn right that Daisy minds her elbows, running along with Juarez over to the back. And just as predicted. Empty dock. She clicks on her earpiece, <Yea, we got a runner, Jane.> then to Juarez, hands on hips, "Why do they always run, eh?"

<Alright, I will get on my way.> beat, <Hopefully we won't have to wait until Green is, I dunno, Alaska, before the program starts up> smartass Daisy making fun of their archaic systems! Might be she is getting spoiled with SHIELD tech. Or Inhuman tech. Yet the way she said it seems it was mostly meant as a joke.

"Alright, go help the other Agent here, Juarez. And thanks." a nod to the man and then she is down and out towards the exit where their vans are or ..., she can simply take to the air. Which she does, hands to her sides, vibrations starting to form out of her core and she shoots up into the skies.

<Airborne now. Let me know where I need to go.>

Jane Foster has posed:
"I don't know. James is a decent kid, not much trouble for a weed head." He throws a look back to the bay and watches quickly for any traffic on the rather desolate stretch of road fronting the warehouse. The SHIELD SUV hides against the curb, easy enough to spot if she needs it. Otherwise, they're going to be dealing with beater box cars and pickup trucks that aren't great for car chases.

<He isn't in Alaska, the cargo truck is headed for the Interstate though. It's not there yet, though he's two streets up from us right now."

Inhuman tech and SHIELD tech is a nice thing to have. Or, you know, a psychic king untroubled by things like distance. Jane silently settles down in front of the dispatch computer, nudging aside an employee aside. She looks between the two and then digs into her phone, flipping through it. <Let's see, head northbound up the waterfront and then cut in east after the second intersection. That should -- are you /flying/?>

Daisy Johnson has posed:
<I thought I should cut the middle man.> Daisy replies impishly. And of course the middle man in this case is the SUV! Maybe she would had done otherwise if it was super cool VAN. But nope. Airborne. <But honestly. Better this way, I don't really know Starling streets that well.>

Northbound though? She follows it, pushing on her powers to drive her that way. It's not exactly perfect flying like some others but she's managing at least.

<I am at the intersection. Trailing east.> Another breath, eyes closing and she tosses her hands back, vibrational powers propelling her forward and now east bound. <The way they talk about this kid doesn't seem as if he has Hydra ties. Wonder what else is at play here..>

Jane Foster has posed:
Vibrations have to be difficult when dealing with the comm links, since the turbulence to propel someone airborne won't be small. What speeds Daisy can achieve proves interesting for Jane -- she certainly isn't going to guess. <Keep me informed on where you are. At least this way you get through an intersection without stopping. Look for a big white van or red taillights.>

There is traffic but not much. Up above the squalid warehouses, the taillights and headlights of cars stand out. The traffic is heavier toward the city center rather than on the edges where wharves and railway tracks split through the industrial area. It smells pretty awful up there, all brine and diesel. <Ignorant? Afraid? I don't have good beads on that, but he could be paid off. Drugs aren't cheap.>

No room for error as she watches the pings show up on the dispatch screen; slow as ever, but it works. <He doesn't seem to have caught on.>

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Big white van with red taillights. Shouldn't be too hard to spot. Daisy does just that, trailing airborne and continuing to feed her own location on comms, <Continuing to head east on the intersection.> then a wrinkle of her nose. <I am starting to regret having flown here instead of bringing the suv... The smell... Nothing like some diesel in the ..., afternoon?> and not that she can cover her mouth and nose or anything with having to use both her arms to fly.

<Think I am seeing the van> She speaks up and dives in, vibrations noticeably getting lower as she is also slowing down to line up with the truck.

<Going to land on top of it.> Or so she hopes, zipping just above the van and then letting those vibrations cease and she attempting to land atop it, crouched on one knee and her hands reaching to hold on tight so she just doesn't get tossed over. It's not as easy as people see in the movies!

Jane Foster has posed:
Cold, stinky, and definitely noteworthy for anyone peering out over the bay. Not like flying ladies are so common. Especially not with the earth shaking lightly here or there. Rattling windows or grumbling clouds could be passed off for thunder, if only the season were right.

The van driver only starts behaving erratically when he gets the idea something is descending, since the shaking gives him an idea of the road being less than a problem. Thing is, cargo vans have no particularly great handling when yawing on the wheel, accelerating the risk to toppling over or knocking into something. He swings his boxy vehicle back and forth, since something /thumping/ atop his truck is reason to freak out. Foot to the accelerator, this becomes a more dangerous route.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Why do they always run? Really, here Daisy is just nicely landing atop the truck instead of toppling it over. Does she get a thanks? Nope! Instead she gets an erratic truck and Green trying to shake her off. Indecent! The Agent almost falls down, slipping over the side before one arm extends to the side and she 'pushes' herself back atop it by use of her powers. Of course that it makes her go all the way to the other side, her head briefly appearing on the side window. "Stop this...!" pause as another turn is made by the truck and she goes all the way over to the other window, "... truck at.." head disappearing again at another turn. But she frowns and digs her hands in.

"Right this moment!" a glimpse inside the truck to look at whoever is within.

<Don't you just hate it when they don't listen to reason..> Teeth gritted together at the effort of holding on.

Jane Foster has posed:
They run because crazy people fall out of the sky and pursuit that no one knew about suddenly descends in an unholy frisson of light and terror. Or a thud, louder than any pinecone, from what looked like clear sky. The driver isn't a NASCAR or Twisted Metal hero. He didn't sign up for this, and least of all for someone clinging to the side of his vehicle. Or the top. He can't really tell what happens from the cab! But having his very impressive seatbelt on gives him some protection, not slewing around much though the vehicle jerks and almost clips a stop sign as Green heroically shrieks.

"What the frag is that!" His sound of alarm gets louder, sharper, brutal. "What the everliving--"

The wheel hits the curb. Up Daisy goes, jostled all over, the packages in the back bouncing up and down. That hourglass better be packed well!

Meanwhile, back at the shipping company, Jane kicks the chair back. "You have insurance on that, yes?"

"Of course, he's--" The penny drops. "Lady, you can't--"

<Daisy, kill the vehicle if you can.> Collision with road is, in fact, a thing.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Yea, this isn't going great. Specially as with this kind of driving he may just start endangering other people in the streets. And that Daisy won't have. <With pleasure> She replies to Jane's instructions.

"I tried the nice way..." And then she /jumps/ out of the truck, going airborne again and flying ahead of the truck to land a ways in front of it, down the street. Expression is focused now, posture slightly to the side, one hand raising up to point at the truck. She exhales, eyes closing, 'feeling' the truck, the vibrations being produced and then ...

She opens her eyes.

Vibrational force starts to combat the truck's motion, not abruptly as she doesn't want the truck to be as if going against a wall but slowly mounting, fighting the forward acceleration in an attempt to slow it down and eventually to a stop if she can, using all that training she has accomplished that has made her powers so much more refined! It was time to put those to the test..

"STOP!" Her voice echoing through the street, powered by her expanding vibrations.

Jane Foster has posed:
It's going better than a footchase or a car chase, isn't it? The panicked driver, the lack of property to damage that's worth anything, the possibility of a nice ride on the beach before crashing into the water seconds later... because Harbourside doesn't do beaches where warehouses and wharves are involved.

The increasing density and a bridge connecting another larger thoroughfare loom ahead as Daisy focuses on making the truck stop while it barrels at her. Green, for his part, is so flummoxed he doesn't react with the ease of a Mario Andretti or other race car driver. He keeps one hand on the wheel, a string of curses and fearful shouts leaving his mouth. The engine strains as he squashes pedals, gears wailing, the smell of burning ripped from the engine. The thing slows down, squealing tires and dislodged packages flung around inside. It bleeds off a lot of speed, this is true, but the wobbling of the disrupted center of gravity she hasn't quite accounted for, which means that big attached box still threatens to swing around.

Slowly, but still, it might smoosh her. Or the driver. Screeching metal, twisting frame, and the thing rolls over like a child's toy in glacial motion. It's sort of anticlimactic unless you're trapped by it.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
Success! It's working and .... Oh no. No no no. A certain Poppins or a Fitz would most likely berate her for not accounting for the disrupted center of gravity. What? She isn't a genius like them! She moves to the side swiftly so as to not get swooped over by the truck toppling over, even if it comes in slow motion. Don't risk it! Yet as it screeches about and into a slow stop she starts running over.

<Got it stopped. In a way.> Daisy says over comms, <Going to check on Green.> she did see him with a seatbelt on so he most likely he will be ok she hopes. Well, okayish. She runs over to jump over to the side of the truck to get working on the door. "Stay still! I am getting you out." she informs Green, a glance inside to check if he's at least conscious.

Getting the door open she then reaches in to try and get Green out. "I am Agent Johnson, SHIELD."

Jane Foster has posed:
Success comes in a screech of steel and a pool of rubber. Streaks race over the ground and chunks torn from the falling truck hardly leave the ground unscarred. The rattling noises are also elicited from the internal contents flying around, crashing, smashed to bits. Daisy herself is narrowly freed from being squashed by her running, though a blown hose spews hot fluids -- steam mostly -- at her. Wet, maybe a bit burnt, and definitely smelly now.

<We've got slow movement on the GPS. Confirm, you stopped it?> Jane's voice holds concern. <I'm heading for the SUV. I'll call emergency services to send an ambulance over, if you need medical attention. Or he does.>

The comms link gets noisy as she's on the move, hazard that these things are when passing outside or starting up the big black behemoth of a car. It's government-issue, that's how they roll.

Green is bloody but conscious, clawing at his phone or the keys to take with him. He squints when she hauls him out, Daisy's presence earning a squeal. "You crazy lady! You jumped my /window/!"

Daisy Johnson has posed:
A brow quirks at Green. Yea, definitely not Hydra material. "Look..." Daisy says while she hauls the young man out of the topped-over truck, ".. you have some explanation to do about having ran off with sensitive material on the back of the truck. Some paid you? Or what happened? I am giving you a chance here to come clean.." in the meantime she making sure the man isn't going to bleed out on the floor or something, the 0-8-4 not being the immediate property just yet. At least she not wanting to get a death on her conscience if she can help it!

<I am okay. Green is a bit banged up, but he seems fairly okay, though we might need your expertise here.> She speaks over comms, getting back up to her feet. "Help is coming soon, James."

And then she makes her way over to the back to open the back of the van. And to get that item out! Hopefully it was well cushioned inside the transport box!

Jane Foster has posed:
Not HYDRA material, but maybe he's super sneaky and hiding a total supervillain facade like a certain Spider-Man does behind a dopey teen facade. Wouldn't that be nice? Not for Daisy. "I was making my delivery! It was -- you were in the window! You were on the truck! How were you on the truck?"

His babbling is a sure sign of shock, if the bruising on his face and body or the bloody welt on his head aren't telling. "How did you get on my truck? Police, I want my lawyer! And a police." Silly man, you don't get to ask for the police.

He still pushes at her, trying to shake him out. Given the chance to sit on the sidewalk, he tries to stand and topples back over, catching himself on the curb. No going that way, then. He might stand to crawl away while she's busy.

Jane hasn't that far to drive, but far enough that Daisy will probably have started sorted through busted packaging and boxes. The equipment is mostly commercial, bits of printer cartridges or a box of pressed t-shirts and aprons with a restaurant logo, another over there leaking relish from several shattered jars. The smashed up containers are a write-off, so no one will mind if she steals some broken cookies or a couple dozen boxes of screws loose, right?

Mind, sifting through there for an hourglass the size of her hand will take longer, and sirens and the twin beams of the SHIELD SUV light up the evening well for that effort.

Daisy Johnson has posed:
From time to time Daisy casts a look over the edge of the truck. And gives James a 'look', which pretty much means 'don't go anywhere'. Really. She doesn't want to pursue an half-dragging kid through the wharf. Yet the guy's questions bring up a response, because she has to. "SHIELD. Quake. Superhero." she keeps it simple, because she figures the guy isn't in the best of states. "Just rest, a good doctor will be here soon."

And then she has to go into the truck, with all those toppled crates and ..., peanuts? What the.. "You really were in a hurry to deliver these peanuts eh? Or was it the printer cartridges? You know, we could use some back at the office.." she keeps talking, perhaps to keep the kid conscious in case he may be getting that tendency to fall asleep. That wouldn't be good if he is seriously hurt.

But then there's a shiny. "Mmmm, what is -this-?" she digs into that smashed crate of peanuts, hand through the packs and bringing out the hourglass. She keeps it in her hand, eyebrow arched. "Doesn't look so bad..." she murmurs to herself, starting to step back out of the vehicle.