First Cause • Spider-Man: Homecoming [Unedited]

04

•

The (situationally) anti-gravity boots picked up a few years ago from one of the Iwongor empire's outposts exhibit a dent here and there, the carbon fiber toe and heel coverings look oddly pristine against the scratched up grey metal.

It takes a few tries to get the thing fitted over her gauze strips and bandages around her ankles, until she decides she's healed enough already to take the strips off completely. The magnetized straps of the boot snap on snugly then and secure the shoes to Gadea's socked feet. And the rest of her exo-suit.

The suit being little more than a hodgepodge of vastly differing pieces of purchased and/or 'spirited away' technology from the many worlds and off-planet trading centers Gadea has come in contact with during her time as a Hand.

A Golgian shock-absorbing helmet with a translucent metallic half-face visor capable of being sheathed in the helmet's crown. Chest plates, shoulder pads and bicep and forearm protectors she pilfered off of a fellow Hand during a night celebrating the Grip's latest heist, where the booze ran fast and freely, as did Gadea's hands.

Thigh, knee and shin guards of the same make as the chest plates, bought for half the price once she showed the shop owner the business end of her particle gun, on the dunescape of a planet whose name Gadea forgets. Standard Hand utility belt holding the aforesaid particle gun and one or two party tricks in its four pouches.

And of course, old reliable anti-gravity boots, which struggle tooth and nail to live up to their name. Gadea, fully outfitted in her assortment of legally and questionably-acquired garb, stands from the pilot's chair. Jumping on the spot to activate these Suns-damned boots, as a lady can't very well attend a function simply saturated in the act of lawbreaking half-dressed. For tonight is indeed the night.

For four days, Gadea has perfected her plan for ambushing Jackson Brice's arms deal with the precision of a laser. She's run computer-generated simulations no less than thirty times. Filled the possible nooks and cracks in her plan that could and might lead to a disastrous outcome with a mortar made from foresight and contingencies.

If a sudden thunderstorm were to open like a cracked egg over Queens, Gadea's weapons are equipped with waterproof capabilities. If Jackson Brice's vehicle transporting his arms were to suddenly suffer from a flat tire on the road, Gadea has memorized all ten of the possible routes he could take to lead to the transaction zone, and has prepped to make the tiresome journey down all these paths to get to him. If a nosey adolescent were to decide to come to the abandoned basketball court, where Gadea's ship has been cozily parked and hidden under a cloaking shield, she has enough space in her wardrobe to house a captive.

One wrench that could likely be thrown into the mix of her master plan by some mischievous deity, however, she has no rational secondary procedure for. At least, not one whose outcome is in her favor.

Collapsing backwards onto her chair, her gloved fingers probe the side of the helmet until they reach a cylindrical button on the space where her ear would be. One press sheaths the lime-tinted visor. The upper half of her face free, Gadea pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs heavily. Prepared and somehow still unprepared.