Chapter 16: The Vault: Infiltration and Annoyance
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: MISSION: "OPERATION: STOLEN STINGRAY" – PRIMARY OBJECTIVE. INITIATE INFILTRATION PROTOCOL. CAUTION: SHIELD SECURITY IS HIGH. UTILIZE ALL ACQUIRED SKILLS.]
"Oh, I'm utilizing everything, System. Including my highly refined ability to annoy people into submission," I muttered, adjusting the slightly-too-tight janitor's uniform I'd 'acquired.' My "Basic Illusion Casting" was working overtime, making the uniform look genuinely worn and stained, and subtly blurring my features just enough to make me forgettable. My "Basic Law Enforcement Protocol Knowledge" had helped me forge a surprisingly convincing (to a tired guard, at least) work order for "HVAC maintenance, sub-level 7." Who knew bureaucracy could be such a powerful weapon?
The SHIELD Black Site, "The Vault," was exactly as imposing as its reputation suggested. Hidden deep within a remote mountain range, its entrance was a seamless blend of rock and reinforced steel. My "Advanced Tactical Awareness" was screaming at me, highlighting pressure plates, laser grids, and enough surveillance cameras to film a reality TV show about highly secure facilities. This wasn't just a building; it was a fortress designed to keep things in and people like me out.
"Alright, Adam, this is the big one. A hundred million dollars. And bragging rights. Time to show SHIELD that their 'impenetrable' security is merely a suggestion to an immortal with a penchant for chaos."*
My plan was simple, yet utterly insane: walk in. Not through the front door, obviously, but through a less-monitored service entrance I'd pinpointed using satellite imagery (courtesy of a very expensive, very illegal, Chitauri-enhanced satellite dish). My "Basic Espionage Mastery (Limited)" was guiding me, whispering subtle cues about guard rotations and blind spots.
I approached the service entrance, pushing a squeaky cleaning cart. The guard at the checkpoint, a burly man with a permanent scowl, barely glanced up from his tablet.
"Maintenance," I mumbled, holding up the fake work order. "Sub-level 7. HVAC. Smells like burnt toast down there. Probably a rogue toaster. Or, you know, a very angry alien device. Could be either."
The guard grunted, waving me through. He didn't even look at the work order closely. My "Basic Intimidation (Mild Effect)" must have made me seem too pathetic to be a threat. Or he was just really, really bored.
Once inside, the real challenge began. The Vault was a labyrinth of sterile corridors, humming machinery, and constant surveillance. Every corner seemed to have a camera, every door required a keycard or a retinal scan.
"Okay, Adam, time to put those 'Basic' skills to the test. Wall-crawling? Check. Illusion casting? Check. Annoying people into submission? Double check. Let's do this."*
I used my "Wall-Crawling" to navigate ventilation shafts, avoiding laser grids and motion sensors. My "Basic Escape Artistry" gave me an uncanny knack for picking the locks on maintenance panels, allowing me access to hidden pathways. It was like a real-life stealth video game, except the stakes were a hundred million dollars and my potential perma-death.
I reached the research labs, the supposed location of "Stingray." The security here was even tighter. Scientists in lab coats bustled about, oblivious to the immortal janitor scaling the walls above them. I found a secure server room, the heart of their data network.
"Alright, System, time for a little digital mischief. Let's see what kind of chaos I can cause with a few well-placed keystrokes and a dash of alien processing power."*
I slipped inside the server room, using an illusion to make myself appear as a flickering shadow on the wall. The lone technician inside was engrossed in a complex data transfer. I quickly plugged in a small, Chitauri-enhanced data stick I'd prepared. It wasn't designed to steal data, but to cause a very specific, very annoying kind of chaos.
The data stick uploaded a series of custom-made viruses. Not destructive ones, but disruptive ones. Alarms began to blare, but not the security alarms. Instead, the fire alarms went off. Then the cafeteria's menu board started displaying pictures of rubber chickens. The intercom system began playing "Never Gonna Give You Up" on a loop, faintly at first, then progressively louder.
The technician stared at his monitors in horror. "What the?! What's happening?!"
"Just a little... system update," I whispered, my voice distorted by an illusion to sound like a glitch in the intercom. "We're implementing a new 'morale-boosting' protocol. Hope you like Rick Astley."
Chaos erupted. Scientists spilled out of their labs, confused and annoyed. Guards rushed to investigate the non-existent fire. My "Advanced Tactical Awareness" showed me the security grid flickering, creating temporary blind spots. This was my window.
I slipped into the "Stingray" lab, a highly sterile, heavily fortified room. The prototype was encased in a force field, pulsating with a faint, blue energy. It looked like a sleek, metallic manta ray, about the size of a surfboard. Definitely alien. Definitely valuable.
The force field was powered by a complex energy conduit. My "Basic Energy Weapon Proficiency" gave me an instinctual understanding of how to overload it, not to destroy it, but to temporarily disrupt it. With a few precise manipulations of the power couplings (and a bit of brute force, thanks to my fading "Basic Enhanced Strength"), the force field flickered and died.
I grabbed the "Stingray." It was surprisingly light, yet humming with immense power.
"Gotcha, you beautiful, hundred-million-dollar manta ray! Time to make my grand exit. And maybe leave a little something behind for SHIELD to remember me by."*
As I made my way out, navigating the still-chaotic corridors, I passed a security console. I couldn't resist. Using my "Basic Law Enforcement Protocol Knowledge," I quickly accessed the internal messaging system. I typed out a single, anonymous message, sending it to every SHIELD agent's comms device:
"To whom it may concern: Your 'Stingray' has gone on a little vacation. Don't worry, it's in good hands. Mine. Also, your cafeteria's serving rubber chickens for lunch. Just thought you should know. P.S. Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down..."
I heard a collective groan from the agents nearby as the message went out. My work here was done. I slipped out through the same service entrance, leaving the Vault in a state of musical, rubber-chicken-themed pandemonium.