First Cause • Spider-Man: Homecoming [Unedited]

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"Run a full diagnostic on internal fuel systems and give me an analysis of the flight path."

"Affirmative."

The omniscient-sounding pre-installed female voice of the ship's computer system, updated to converse in the language of whatever current habitat the ship resides in, echoes from no particular direction. Though Gadea knows by now this is as a result of the deep speakers embedded between the layers of the ship's walls to maximize the volume of sounds.

Metal, speakers, nano-fiber foam, metal. Simple, uncomplicated, architectural. Dare she say it, she's somewhat envious of the damn AI.

There's a detached, unfeeling way in which machines carry out their business. Execute their orders. The grounds of their decision making is strictly founded in logic and rational operation; emotions and other external factors biological life usually grapple with don't apply to beings of a more automated disposition. It's this mindset, this detached, unfeeling, simple, uncomplicated, architectural, mindset she has to get into for the kind of mission she's ascribed to herself.

Before her tango with the outpost, dissociation has to come over her with the same ease of slipping on a glove one has worn hundreds of times before.

Separation of the impassioned, sentimental self to leave only the subservient Hand is tantamount to having one's mission successfully completed, the Grip has preached for years with a fervor of a Terran dog frothing at the mouth. Sliding back into this state, by reason of muscle memory if not anything, should happen smoothly and naturally.

Yet she has been running random and unnecessary system checks on the ship's AI while, truly, waiting for that familiar feeling to settle across her shoulders. It's been an hour.

Gadea has done everything according to the book. She's double-checked her fuel reserves. Made preemptive adjustments to the areas on both of the tanks that could be possible problem points going forth with the departure from the planet's atmosphere. Repairs to the med bay robotics. Inspection of the mechanisms operating the entrance and the back exit. Reinforcement of the airlock.

She has donned her official Hand's uniform; a garb consisting of a plain, cobalt full-body suit. Long sleeves end in elastic two inch-long cuffs at her wrists and ankles, in a darker shade of the same navy blue. Her Hand's pin that she hasn't worn in days is secured over her left breast, tough mid-calf length boots, much tighter around her toes and heels than she remembers are strapped on. Her hair is up, so adversaries can't use its length to gain leverage against her.

She's also done everything according to her. Her pre-mission ritual of knocking twice on her cabin's door and sliding on her knees across the floor of the hallway. Making sure all of her scars and still smarting wounds are treated to the best of the med bay's abilities. Playing around in her pilot's chair.