Chapter Text
“Dr. Mendez.”
“Director Fury.”
“Do you know why you’re here doctor?”
Carlos heitates for a moment, sensing the trick question hidden in the obvious one. “I was under the impression that you have a special assignment for my team and I, sir.” It wouldn’t be the first one. It likely won’t be the last either.
Fury considers him, single eye sharp and eye patch imposing. Carlos, who spent most of his teenage years being stared at disapprovingly by various authority figures, keeps his face pressed into one of coolly polite interest as he stares at Fury’s nose. In all fairness, it’s harder with Fury than it is anyone else.
“Have you ever heard of Night Vale?”
Carlos makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, even as he puzzles over the apparent non sequitur. “Of course I have.” Who hadn’t? No agent or scientist spends much time in SHIELD without hearing the distinctly alarming stories regarding Night Vale. Sure, no one actually admits to believing in Night Vale, but the threat of being assigned to the town is enough to straighten up even the most rebellious of agents. “Personally, I buy into the rumor that it’s a horror story you and Hill came up with to threaten probationary and delinquent agents with. There’s no way Night Vale can be real.”
The sigh that escapes Fury as he ignores the casual accusation does not serve to reassure Carlos, nor do his next words: “If Night Vale didn’t exist, my life would be a hell of a lot easier Dr. Mendez.”
Carlos’ stomach twists at the words. Oh, he isn’t going to like this, is he? “What exactly are you saying?” There’s a beat of expectant silence, and Carlos adds, “Sir.”
“What I’m saying, Dr. Mendez, is that your new assignment is finding everything you can about Night Vale.”
Carlos’ mind begins whirling, trying to find a way out of this because no, this is going to end absolutely terribly if even the tamest stories about Night Vale are true. “Sir, surely field agents or Dr. Banner and Stark---”
“Aren’t technically part of SHIELD,” Fury says, speaking over Carlos without ever raising his voice. The part of Carlos that is still a rebellious teenager resents that. “And there’s no point in sending in a containment team if we don’t understand how to contain the problem. There’s a reason you were selected to lead this assignment Dr. Mendez. You have more than enough field experience, and your team speaks highly of you. You and your team leave in one week, 0600. Dismissed.”
Carlos blinks at that unexpected nugget of information (He and his team are close, yes, and they work together well, but he didn’t realize they’d been so complimentary of him in their reports.) then leaves the Director’s office, already compiling a mental list of materials, equipment, and personal supplies he’ll need before leaving for Night Vale. Night Vale, an actual place and not just the secret agency equivalent of a ghost story. Great. Amazing.
Carlos can already feel his hair turning grey from stress.
/=\=/=\
The drive down Route 800 is quiet. Agent Coulson drives, answering every question Carlos poses with his customary and oh so professional aplomb, no matter how strange the question or answer. There really isn’t a whole lot of useful information to share, which sets Carlos’ nerves on edge. How can he protect himself and his team without facts, information? Of course, that’s why he and his team are going to Night Vale: to gather facts and information because that’s what scientists do. And his team is comprised entirely of amazing scientists. Carlos is no slouch when it comes to his job either, and he even has at least a little respect from Stark. Not enough to join the man’s Mad Scientist Club yet, but maybe keeping his sanity intact after Night Vale will change that. That line of thinking isn’t particularly helpful, so he does what he’s literally paid to do: ask questions.
“Why can’t we fly directly into Night Vale?”
“Night Vale citizens are aware of SHIELD, though they refer to us as a,” and here, Carlos can practically hear the air quotes, even though Coulson keeps his hands firmly on the steering wheel, “Vague Yet Menacing Government Agency.” Ignoring Carlos’ snicker of amusement, Coulson continues, “They’re smart enough to be suspicious of us, and we’ve determined it best for you to show no affiliation with SHIELD.”
Carlos privately applauds the intelligence of Night Vale’s citizens, though he somehow feels Coulson won’t appreciate the sentiment. He also feels Couslon won’t appreciate him asking who we is. Probably Coulson himself, Hill, Fury, and whoever else is sending him down the rabbit hole. Instead he asks, “How well can we communicate with SHIELD once we’re in Night Vale?”
“Fairly well, though computers and writing utensils are banned.”
“I don’t think I’m going to ask.”
“Best not to.”
“What should we expect from government officials and law enforcement?”
“Night Vale has a mayor and City Council, thought it seems to be more of a corrupt dictatorship supported by an organization known as the Sheriff’s Secret Police. Don’t get involved in the local politics.”
“What support will my team and I have from SHIELD?”
“We’ll be there for your first meeting, but, provided everything goes well, you will have minimal support except for a security detail.” Carlos immediately opens his mouth to protest, concern for his and his team’s safety and sanity at the forefront of his mind, but Coulson cuts him off with a smooth gesture. “It’s the director’s orders, not mine. We don’t want to draw attention to any of you for your own safety. The main form of communication throughout town is through a radio show hosted by a man named Cecil Palmer. By all accounts, he’s well known and well loved by the community, so I suggest making nice with him. As much as feasibly possible, avoid the mayor, stay away from the city council, and don’t draw the attention of the Sheriff’s Secret Police.”
“Just stay under the radar,” Carlos summarizes, slumping back into his seat.
“Essentially,” Coulson agrees. “It’s a small town, and you’re an outsider, so some attention’s expected. Just---”
“Keep it to a minimum, yeah.”
Coulson allows himself a small grin that softens his serious face. “Hey, at least you’ll earn a spot in Stark’s Mad Scientist Club.”
This echoes Carlos’ earlier thoughts so closely, Carlos can’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah, because Fury really want me, Stark, and Banner to be buddies.” Coulson’s professionally bland expression slips for just a second.
Carlos can only laugh.
/=\=/=\
Once they arrive in town, Carlos and his team move their assorted gear into the rented lab space SHIELD procured for them (it’s by a pizza parlor of all things, but whatever works he supposes). After all the boxes are unloaded, all their equipment finds a home, and everything is neatly labeled with brisk efficiency, Carlos take a moment of both professional and personal pride. With a deep sigh, Carlos approaches Corey, the head of the small security detail assigned to the team in the likely event that things go sideways. “I need to speak to a City Council rep so I can introduce myself and the rest of the team.” The whole not supposed to wander off on my own thing goes without saying.
Corey’s expression hardens, understandably wary after all the horror stories. “Are you sure that’s a good idea boss?”
Carlos nods, squaring his shoulders and setting his feet down firmly. He’s a casual man for the most part, easy going and open, but he’s tall and solid and knows how to use that when it suits him. “I’m sure. As head of the team, I’ll act as the middleman between us and Night Vale’s citizens. To that extent, it’s only---” he hesitates to use the word because he knows what’s coming next but continues, “Logical that I introduce myself.”
The field agent scoffs with a hint of a smile. “Sure thing Commander Spock.”
Carlos relaxes his body language and makes a face before turning on his heel because that, that right there, is why he doesn’t like using the word logical despite it being a perfectly good word. He isn’t Spock. Far from it, in fact, despite the way his team might tease him. It’s just that sentiment has no place in science. It clouds a person’s judgement and makes them do stupid, stupid things. Part of what keeps groups like the X-Men and Avengers so busy is cleaning up misguided experiments that started by mixing sentiment and science and ended in disaster. And villains. Lots of super-powered villains.
He’s almost out the door when his gaze lands on a lab coat, innocuous and white and there; he’s not sure how it got there or why he does it, but Carlos pauses for only a brief moment before slipping it on and walking into the dry desert air.
“Know where we’re going sir?” Corey asks. Dressed in comfortable jeans, a worn shirt, and old sneakers, the small handgun Carlos knows is tucked into his waistband is an unlikely and nearly unnoticeable accessory.
Carlos nods, walking in the direction of City Hall where he can see the silhouette of someone in the lengthening shadows. Before he and Corey can get there, however, a figure doesn’t so much walk as glided in front of him. Bedecked in a black cloak that hides any identifying factors, the figure face Carlos. A firm hand immediately grips his shoulder and bodily moves him back several steps. And then he’s staring at the back of Corey’s head, blocking Carlos from the hooded figure’s view. “Excuse us,” he says in the cool way all field agents have. “Can we help you?”
The hooded figure just moves closer to the accompanying sound of static. The sound is grating, and it makes both men wince. It doesn’t stop either, and it---he? She? They? It?--- circles around them. Is it sizing them up? Analyzing them? It’s a strange sensation, and he shakes his head when Corey glances at them askance. Carlos doesn’t really think bullets will do much to it. Corey apparently agrees because he drops his hand from his waistband without a word. After a few agonizing moments that stretch on forever, the hooded figure seems satisfied and glides off in a swirl of robes.
“Well then,” Carlos says, voice pitched a little oddly thanks to a combination of adrenaline, alarm, and shock. “That was an interesting first encounter with Night Vale’s residents.”
Corey taps at his ears like they’re still ringing a little bit. (Carlos knows his still are.) “It could’ve gone a lot worse. I didn’t have to shoot whatever that thing was, and it didn’t make us go deaf. That’s something I suppose.”
Carlos nods, and, despite being distinctly unnerved, turns to City Hall again. “Let’s just get through this so we can go back.” Corey nods, hands falling casually to his sides as they approach the slack-jawed, hollow-eyed city council rep, and Carlos sets about introducting himself. “I’m a scientist, and my team and I are in Night Vale to see what’s going on around here,” he explains to the mute figure. “We’re set up in the lab space next to the pizza parlor, so if you need anything from us, someone will be down there.” When he’s done talking, Corey leads the way back to the lab space, wary of any more hooded figures. Carlos follows behind, taking in more of the town now that he has a moment to spare.
In the heat of the day, the town is mostly deserted, and Carlos sees only one person. The man at White Sand Ice Cream parlor isn’t tall or short, fat of thin. He’s impeccably dressed in a pale purple button down, sleeves rolled to his elbows to theoretically combat the heat, though the silver vest over it defeats that purpose. His pants look back until the man moves his leg, and the unrelenting sun reveals them to be dark purple. His foot taps a sporadic beat as he fidgets with his phone, and is it just Carlos, or are the tattoos on the man’s arms moving? As if sensing Carlos’ gaze, the man glances up, pinning Carlos with sharp, dark eyes framed by silver glasses the same color as his hair. His head tilts curious before glancing at the lab behind him and back to Carlos. The man offers Carlos a grin, and maybe it’s the distance, but the man’s teeth look sharp. The man waves at him, and Carlos offers a tentative smile and little wave of his own.
Corey, who’d walked far ahead of Carlos and seemingly ignored the man, calls over his shoulder, “Hey, you coming boss? The red shirts are asking for you.”
Carlos huffs at the (inaccurate) Star Trek reference. “Starfleet science officers wear blue, not red. If anyone’s the red shirt, it’s you. Besides, they’re obviously minions, not red shirts.”
Corey laughs. “I’ll tell them you said that.”
“I’ll tell them myself,” Carlos replies, allowing himself a wide grin. He follows Corey back to what’s already beginning to feel like their lab, hopeful and excited and nervous and terrified all at once. He glances back, once and only once, to the little ice cream parlor. The admittedly attractive man is gone, and the only thing left is a small cup of lavender ice cream.