The Triskelion is anything but easy to navigate once you get down into the basement of the place. There are whole office complexes within office complexes housed underground, and it's anything but easily navigated. Some jerk in a suit might claim this was all intentional, to make it more confusing to intruders. In reality this was all just poor planning, and it's only made all the worse that half these little complexes don't even have a plaque or anything outside to indicate what might be inside. It's incidentally a great way to find where the SHIELD "Office Of Strategic Stationary" is hidden, and right next door? Well somone took a section of blue painter's tape and a sharpie and wrote in nice block letters "Bad Guy Central" on the door at least, whatever the hell that means. Inside the place, well it's just one big room for the most part. There are about twenty little cubicles along either wall with a single desk set against the back wall. Set along the center then is a single long table which is piled high with papers, and no joke like fifteen different paper airplanes. In the little entry way though, well the walls are covered with photographs. Six pilots, standing next to various fighter aircraft. There are shelves for memoriabilia, but it's been stacked on the end of the table. Purple hearts,Silver stars, a single Medal of honor, and no joke another fifteen or twenty other decorations issued by the Navy, Airforce and Marines. Pulled for cleaning, of course. This is indeed "Bad Guy Central", and slumped in a seat at the central table is none other than the best fighter pilot. See we all know she's the best because of the "#1 Fighter Pilot" Mug she's got in one hand, and we all know mugs don't lie yo. Her free hand peering at a tablet as she peers over unit performance reviews, picking out her own squadron's next victims in need of a good and proper kick in the ass. Alone of course, if only because everyone else had better excuses to get out of office work than she did. "Hey. How you doing," Cap says, stepping off the elevator. He'd be a hard man to mistake even in his civilian attire— wearing the red, white, and blue uniform of his battlefield days, he's a living legend stepping into the guts of the Triskelion. The floor secretary flaps his jaw, almost unable to formulate a response. Steve points down the hall. "Fighter wing, down this hall, right?" he inquires. The secretary nods, still too stunned to speak, and Cap sketches a salute and heads down the hall. He's not wearing his helmet, nor does he have his shield. But the icon of America itself gets a lot of stunned looks, which he tactfully ignores. But the silent murmur springs up in his wake. "Holy shit, that's Steve Rogers." "What… that's Captain America." Unconsciously, he speeds his footsteps up a bit, as if trying to outrun the awestruck stares and gaggling awareness in his wake. He arrives at 'Bad Guy Central', looking around, then focuses on Stella. "Excuse me, miss. I'm looking for Captain Fisher," Steve says, looping his thumbs through his utility belt for comfort. "This is the right area, yeah? The Aggressors?" he inquires, looking around the area. Theres a pause "Look sweetheart, Rats isn't here so just leave your bet…"And thats when Stella lifts her gaze, and just grinds to a halt. Head cocking slowly to one side "Oh, you're Steve Rogers."She states in a matter of fact manner, before it all clicks and she jumps to her feet. Wincing as she all but spills her coffee. "Oh hey, oh yeah ok. Yes I'm, you're Steve Rogers and I already said that didn't I? Alright yes, yes that is me. Enemy Ace herself, but you know. Same rank there, Rogers so yeah just call me..basically whatever you want." Deftly she finally sets that coffee down, before tucking that tablet under her arm and approaching to offer a hand and a broad smile. "Yeah, First and only SHIELD aggressors. What can I do for you, oh and please do have a seat. Can I get you a coffee or, we have doughnuts and we found this place that's pretty great." Steve diplomatically ignores Stella's confused outburst, deftly offering her a handshake before she does some fool thing like salute him. His own surprise shows on his brows. "-You're- Captain Fisher?" he says, a little taken aback. Zinda Blake was one of his best friends, but… she was an exceptional woman in many ways. "Sorry to just drop in on you," Steve says, moving to take a seat where she invites him. "I'm fine, thanks. I'll take a doughnut though," he agrees, setting one on a paper plate and pulling it in front of him. "These look great. Local place, huh?" he inquires, carefully ripping the doughnut into manageable thirds. "I know this is a little impromptu," Steve apologizes. "I'm not big on paperwork, though, so I hope that's not a problem. I need some help and everyone said— you're the best SHIELD has." "Well if you were looking for the best, then you're in the right place."Stella coughs, before snagging her coffee and circling around to snag a seat near Steve. "Captain Stella Fisher at your service of course, 1st Aggressors are the finest fighter pilots America has ever produced. We just finished playing op-for with the southern command, so my people are all scattered all over god's creation at the moment but I can get us wheels up in fourty eight hours if you need us." "And really just uh, call me "Red Riding Hood" or "Fishy". Thankfully we're not a Navy outfit, so we're all pretty casual down here. Oh and the doughnuts, oh god no those are from this place down in Arkansas. Piggot, has this great little airport. We make sure to pass through whenever we're able, also have this like legitimately incredible BBQ place. Perks of having our own aircraft, is we can plot our own routes of course." "Handy," Steve remarks, with an easy chuckle. He takes a bite. Wow, they /are/ that good. Even by Brooklyn standards. He chews carefully, enjoying the snack with the steadiness of someone who grew up in the shadow of the Great Depression. "A flight down to Arkansas used to take at least a day, back when," Steve remarks wryly. "Amazing how fast people can get around." He wipes his fingers on a napkin and looks back at Stella. "Well, Fishy— I'm looking for some help," Steve explains, rocking back in his chair a little. "And I heard your outfit was fast, mobile, and talented. Also, you weren't big on flight schedules," he says, with a knowing grin at the corner of his eyes. "SHIELD has been asking me to come back on board, and if I'm on board, I need an aircrew I can count on. Catching the backseat of a big bird doing milkruns to Germany doesn't fit my timetables. I was hoping your team might be able to spare someone if I need wheels up and across the Atlantic on short notice." "Done."Comes the immediate response, with a little nod. "We have a dedicated logistical capacity to augment us. Sure we're all aggressors, but SHIELD sniped us out of our native services because we'd got locked into the box. So this unit was constructed from day one with an organic offensive capability, and that means a dedicated fleet of airframes and aircrew. Just you know, remember we're not transport pilots. We're fighter pilots, all of us second or third generation. If things get hot, that might mean we're flying topcover for a Quinjet or something because those things couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag." Stella leans back, eyes unfocusing a moment. "I'll spool up some aircrew and dedicate a detachment for ops, have you been checked out on the LD stuff yet, GPS, ten line sheets for air support or any of that? Remember, we're hauling high explosive laser guided ordinance at supersonic speeds at like fifty thousand feet to keep out of SAM range. We can't just eyeball the badguys." "Sorry to ruin your fun," Steve says with an easy grin at Stella's enthusiasm. "It's one thing to borrow an aircrew for transport, but I am pretty sure I can't authorize sorties or fire missions. All my old friends at the War Department are pretty long gone," he explains, his tone a little wry. "Mostly what we're flying are these, uh—" He digs in a pocket for a picture of a plane, unfolding it and handing it to Stella. It's a SHIELD Quinjet, one of those offenses to aircrews everywhere that serves as transport, recon, and fighter, all rolled into one beastie. "They're authorized all over the world, anywhere NATO signs off on," Steve explains. "And they're fast and dark enough to get into places that aren't quite so friendly." "They're also death traps, they're all tail and no teeth. It's like those guys had never heard of the fighter mafia, drives us nuts. Anyway yes, we have some and we can use them. Problem is, they are completely worthless once things get hot. No Delta, their VNE on the deck is garbage and their stealth at altitude is suboptimal against anyone with a clue. If we're going to operate them, so be it but taking them into a conflict zone without topcover is a fantastic way to get a lot of people killed."Stella offers a lazy grin. "Incidentally I can authorize a fire mission if there are American assets in contact with the enemy, So you let me handle the paperwork on that end. Well as long as, look Germans and the Israelis? Not big fans, but outside of that I can rock'n roll no problem." "I've got some sneaky birds, and we're more than able to get you anywhere you need to be without letting anyone know about it. We can also do so whilst providing topcover, but no Quinjet solo flights in contested airspace. I know the movie came out whilst you were, not around but "Blackhawk Down" is something you should probably watch. We got very lucky with Bin laden, but even there we had F-16s on the border."Stella reaches back to snag her tablet and tap-tap-swipes before sliding it over. Charts of, apparently it's squadron performance. Every member of the squadron had simulated quinjet kills in the hundreds, hell Stella had apparently mock-downed like four hundred of them. "You just worry about where, and I'll take care of the rest ok?" Steve chuckles at Stella's vituperative dislike of the Quinjet. "If it makes you feel better, I heard Air Corps pilots gripe about the Lightning. And the Marines would complain about the Corsair. And the Navy, and the Coast Guard, and the Brits…" He makes an 'and so on' gesture, grinning lopsidedly at Stella. "I know it's not a big favorite, but it's what we've got to operate. And I'd rather find a pilot who knows what a Quinjet's weaknesses are than someone who thinks they can't be shot down," he explains. "I don't know much of what the future holds, but like I said— if you can be fast and mobile, and you don't mind having to talk fast if you end up across the world in government aircraft— I think we can get along all right," Steve says, rising and offering Stella a handshake. Stella rises, and fusses for a moment with her jacket before producing one of those fancy velcro patches everyone has these days. A gold toothed skull over crossed missiles "1st Aggressors" and well the rocker text on the bottom is simple enough "We do bad things to good people". Patch traded, she gives a nod and a firm shake. "Well we'll get you a proper GPS and a good radio so you can talk to us good'n proper, and hey just a heads up. Unfortunately, I have a sailor and a Marine in this outfit. I'm just going to blame our increasingly foul, highly unprofessional and politically incorrect language on them. Especially once we're strapped, expect to hear some really colorful stuff. Like not even joking here, the vocabulary is growing every day it seems like." "Man, hey I know this is probably super wierd but would you mind signing something? My old Wingman has a kid who thinks you're just the greatest thing since sliced bread, and poor kid's becoming a Marine as we speak here. I keep sending the kid cooking, but if his Drill instructors don't kill him I'm pretty sure my cooking will."Followed by a thumb back towards her desk. "Should I get it?" Steve shakes Stella's hand obligingly, taking the patch and giving it an approving grin. He tucks it carefully into his pocket, listening to her explanation with a wry chuckle. "I'm sure I'll be okay," he reassures the woman. Steve's spent a few years among the infantry, after all. "Sure, I don't mind signing something," he says, a little abashed but too polite to refuse the request. He half follows Stella to her cubicle, looking around the area again while she retrives it. "You might have said," he says, again being polite— "but why not the Israelis? I thought everyone got along with Israel," he remarks, with his somewhat crash-course education on the topic of the nation. The German comment he leaves well enough alone, anyway. The desk is full of paperwork, but amongst the piles there is a twisted section of steel set by a lamp without any plaque or anything explaining it. At the question though, Stella pauses. Shoulders tense just a touch, she was kind of hoping he wouldn't ask. "I'm afraid it's my lineage."And after a moment she pops her desk open to rescue something worth signing. One of the test prints for some nose art, incidentally. "BG 3-1" which has a USMC bulldog masket thing and it's all sort've over the top. She does at least have a white sharpie ready to go, which she hands over. "I'm pretty sure you probably shared a battlefield or two, but uh he wasn't American."And a sniff, as she works herself up to it. "Hauptmann Hans Von Hammer, JG.52? I didn't even know about it until I got stationed in Germany, but we're a small community. So everyone found out pretty quick, means I'm not always terribly popular with some people." Steve already has a pen handy, a habit as ingrained in him as remembering his wallet. It's an old ballpoint, the sort issued en masse to officers in the war. He's in the middle of signing her picture when he processes her words, pausing and looking up at her with mild surprise. "Hammer. I know that name," he says, a little softly. His eyes flicker. "The Hammer," he says, his remarkable memory putting names and faces together in his mind. The pen blots over the 'e' in his name at his pause, and he focuses himself on the task by finishing the autograph. 'Steve Rogers, best of luck' is scribbled onto the photo, and he hands it back to Stella. "I've heard of him," Steve remarks, his expression going a bit still. "Shot down a lot of aviators. People said they thought he was a superhuman or something, the way he flew. And you're his… granddaughter?" he says, guessing. She's got the look, and she'd be close to the right age… "Yeah, well they were sort of right. Grand-dad, saw things. Supposedly his father, who'd fought in a bunch of little prussian conflicts had seen things too. Most of it's lost, the family place got burned with the rest of Dresden but.."And a pause, before she collects the picture. "There was, and still is something going on. He uh, got shot down near the end, parachute came down in a Concentration camp. He surrendered his unit to the allies about a week later, but it put the family in a bad spot. Nazis after the war wanted him dead for some things he said about the war, hitler. Everyone else wanted him dead by association, ended up living until 75'. Died alone in an old folks home, no grave we know of." "It's complicated, I mean he's family. I've got the hoodoo, I've read his war diaries. I get why, but he was certainly on the wrong side of the war. I don't know, but anyway theres plenty of folks who think I'm some sort of secret Nazi by association. You know how it goes I'm sure, fighter pilots all just sit and spit venom when they're not flying. It gets, pretty real sometimes." Steve nods at Stella, some sympathy in his expression. It's not like he didn't know some good German families who didn't get the hard eye when the war started— and America certainly didn't treat her Japanese residents with anything like fairness. "Well," he says, brushing his hands together. Sensing he might be making Stella uncomfortable, he flashes a smile at her. "They say you can't pick your family, right?" he says, trying for some levity. "We can't help who we're related too, and from everything I've heard you've gone out of your way to be an exceptional pilot. He offers Stella another handshake, firm and convincing. "Either way, I don't judge people on where they're from. Just on what they do," he promises her. "I'd offer to tell you to refer any problems to me, but I get the sense you prefer to deal with your own problems head-on," he says, grinning again. "I might know what the inside of a brig looks like, sure."She offers a small smile in return, before reaching across to shake firmly. "Yeah well, anyway it's true. I am actually the best pilot who ever lived. "Fighter pilot humility at work everyone. "Oh and uhm, well the kids are all out of the house but just a heads up, we do have another female pilot in the unit. I'll figure something out, a BBQ or something so you can get to know everyone and we can all get over the yaknow. Whole Captain America fuzzies, you know?" Finally, offering a smile, before straightening up. "Oh and, as far as I'm concerned you're an unofficial member of the unit. So feel free to use our gear, we have like twenty different patches and stuff. Our own uniforms, sidearms and stuff. Part of the whole aggressor thing, but seriously if you want anything just ask. We'll somehow endure the shame of a grunt rocking our gear I'm sure, we're tough like that. You already get squared away on the handgun front, incidentally? First Unit to get the Hudsons, if you want one." Steve chuckles and glances away at the praise being lauded on him. One might swear he was blushing, but Captain America doesn't blush. "Well— maybe be careful saying that around Captain Blake," he says. "Skirt or not, I've never met a better pilot than her, and she cut her teeth back when it was all prop planes, steel cables, and pilots more interested in buying her a drink than a lesson." He shakes his head at her offer of gear. "Thanks, but I'm pretty well set," he says. He's in uniform, but not armed, his webbelt left somewhere else, presumably. "SHIELD's been pretty good to me, and I'd hate to borrow gear from one of your troops who might need it. I'll get by," he promises Stella. "But if I come up short, I'll remember your kind offer." "Anyway. I better get back to it, and you probably have work, too," he tells Stella. "Nice meeting you, Captain Fisher. Looking forward to working with you on-mission in the future." He sketches an exchange of salutes with her— the informal respect of one veteran to another— and saunters back to the elevators, sending awestruck people scurrying in every direction as if afraid of being caught eavesdropping. "Captain Blake ain't met the likes of me, Red Riding Hood is the scourge of aircrews the world over."She grins, and makes absolutely no attempt to even feign modesty. "Anyway, yeah just whatever no worries. We're probably going to run a mock insertion next week for completely unrelated stuff, it might be a good opportunity for us to work out the kinks. I'll keep you informed, yeah?" At the salute, she snaps to well practiced to return a stiff salute. "Fair winds and good fortune Captain, keep your head down." 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