Avengers Assembled
NEW YORK CITY,
21:34 HOURS, NOV 29
APPROX. 6 MONTHS BEFORE INCURSION
The sharp chill in the autumn night air sent many a denizen of the boroughs hurrying from one destination to another. Some were just trying to get home from work; others were just beginning their twilight endeavors. Most had third shift jobs, some had professions best left out of the daylight.
A brazen few however were positioning themselves to prey on their fellow man. A pair of such men in Harlem waited in an idling car outside of a known local hub for narcotic distribution and whores. Not that drugs and sex were the sole services available, but they did keep the customer base regular.
The men sat in the darkness under a broken streetlamp, their hard faces would leave no-one questioning the nature of their occupations. Both were in their mid-thirties, close-cropped hair, bronze-skinned Hispanics, hoodies and denim jackets keeping them just warm enough. Neither however flinched as they kept a vigil on the alley entrance to the den of poison.
Down the block, a pair of rugged black boots stepped out of a dive bar, carrying their master at a measured pace.
The man in the driver seat took a drag of his cigarette, never taking his gaze away from his target even as the smoke obscured the already shadowy environment. The man in the passenger seat put his hands to his mouth, blowing warm breath to keep them from freezing.
The metal door to the building swung open, and a gangly black man with short dreads semi-stumbled out. Dressed in a flashy suit pants and jacket over a wrinkled white t-shirt, he was obvious to the wolves about to pounce. The man in the passenger seat turned and nodded to his accomplice, who gave one in return. The exit door slammed shut behind the target as he strode towards the opposite alley opening. The predators swiftly exited the car.
Not far away, the same black boots continued at a steady stride, neither hurrying nor slacking.
"Where's the money you owe Hector kabron?!"
The man from the driver's seat landed a kick to the ribs of the downed victim, whose arms were clutched feebly to protect his vital organs. The passenger sent a kick of his own into the man's groin.
"He's tired of you ducking him Marcus!"
"I can get his money!" The man cried, spittle's of blood misting from between his teeth, "I just need-HACK/wheeze- I just need a few more days man!"
"You don't get sh*t puto!" The passenger yelled, unafraid that any witness might hear him.
Another volley of kicks forced Marcus to turn away towards the ground, several ribs broken, organs ruptured, the cocaine in his system not doing enough to dull the pain. He groaned.
"Man coger e esta, he ain't got nothing' on him" one of the gangsters said with scorn, "We take him back to his crib and grab what we can get there."
They each grabbed an arm, intent to drag Marcus back to their car.
"No, no, no, no…." Marcus mumbled weakly, thinking of the fate that awaited him before the night was through. His head hung limply, despair weighing it down like a yoke. He saw nothing of the pair of boots that approached the trio.
"Who the F-"
A soft impact sound cut-off one of the abductors, and Marcus felt his left arm released. He collapsed to the ground as his other arm dropped, hearing the sounds of a scuffle, and something heavy hitting the pavement next to him, rocking back and forth, making pitiful whimpers. The commotion was over as quickly as it began, a loud snap followed by a short scream of agony, another soft impact, then just gurgling. The second body fell backwards to the ground, twitching slightly, but no longer making attractive noises.
By now it was the fear of whoever this new actor was that kept Marcus' head pinned to the asphalt. He heard the body to his left being picked up, over the objections of the person. The sickening sound of a fist slamming into flesh was exaggerated by the crunch of the facial bones giving way. The body fell back down, and Marcus was terrified to look at it.
A few tense moments passed without any movement, just the steady calm breathing of his rescuer.
"Marcus Lutrell?" Asked the emotionless gravely voice.
Marcus hesitated another moment, perhaps this was someone working for the Kingpin, protecting one of his many street-level distributors.
"Yeah?"
"Marcus 'Strings' Lutrell?" The stranger asked again.
Only people who knew him personally called him 'Strings', which meant that whoever this was, they were sent either by his friends or the people he worked for. He allowed himself to smile as best he could, the sudden relief he felt giving his arms their strength back.
"Yeah man, yeah that's me. I thought those muthafukkas was gonna kill me!"
Marcus got his hands underneath himself, and started to push up off the ground.
"Ashley Aperlo." Came the man.
Confused by the seemingly random statement, the pain in his legs and abdomen distracted his focus.
"Who-what?"
"Ashley Aperlo, 19 years old, from upstate. Came to the city for college, until you got her hooked on coke. Then when she ran out of money, you forced her into prostitution."
Suddenly the face of the girl came to the fore of his memory, Marcus had met the timid brunette at a party, and from there he got her wrapped around his finger. The confusion and anxiety mounting by the heartbeat, Marcus put his remaining strength into his effort to get up. He reached out and grabbed the stranger's belt, using it to pull his body upright.
"Man who are you?"
The image that met him caused his eyes to widen in stark terror. The white death's-head borne against the man's black shirt was known and feared throughout the criminal world. His voice had left him, and all Marcus could do was stammer open-mouthed. Spider-Man would rough you up and leave you in a web for the cops. Daredevil might break a bone or two, but leave you able to walk someday. The man before him had no such mercy, and left nothing but death in his wake.
Marcus's head was wrenched back, the man's left hand getting firm purchase in his dreads. With the rest of his body otherwise too hurt to fight back, he knew that he was powerless. The darkness of the alley put half of the man's face in the shadow, but his eyes, black as pitch, reflected a tiny gleam. The rough stubble along his jaw line and wrinkles around the corners of his eye gave him the specter of a person who took everything in life with the utmost seriousness.
"When her brother came around looking for her, you stabbed him and left him for dead."
Still the man's voice betrayed no hint of sentiment, but in his intoxicated state, Marcus got the feeling that a carnivore was peering down at him, breathing down his neck, fangs just inches away.
Marcus finally found the nerve to speak, panting to get breath back in his lungs; "Yeah, yeah, I know da bitch."
The grip on his hair tightened, the skin stretching to the point Marcus thought it might tear.
"Where is the girl?" The man in black hissed, the breath of his voice turning to steam in the late autumn chill.
Marcus felt his heart trying to beat out of his chest, and said the only thing he thought might save his life, which incidentally, happened to be the truth.
"She's in there man!" he cried, jerking his left hand back towards the door he had exited only minutes ago.
"If you are lying to me-"
"She's in there man, I swear!"
When the man took a glance over to the door, his long black coat shifted in the breeze.
Feeling like he just might get off with his life, Marcus got the idea to bargain with the arbiter of his fate.
"Look man, I get her brother wants revenge, I do and-"
The man in black's attention returned to Marcus with an abrupt turn of the head, and somehow the darkness around him seemed to grow and intensify as he gazed down. Marcus' voice stuck in his throat, enthralled not by a mortal man, but a living nightmare, a figure that made murders and rapists wake-up in a cold sweat.
"This isn't revenge." The words hanging in the air like an axe about to drop.
Marcus felt the hand on his head change places, the palm now resting across his forehead.
"No…no man…" he pleaded, the fingers gripping tighter into his skull.
"This is punishment."
The feeling of having his head forced down, his neck snapping and bent over backwards was indescribable. But as Marcus felt himself unable to breath, his throat closed like a pinched hose, he realized a bullet, or even a knife would have been much more welcome.
His body slowly fell to the left, the damaged nervous system causing his limbs to spasm and jerk.
The man in black watched him twitch for a second, analyzing his handiwork. His eyes narrowed; satisfied that yet another example of the worst of human filth was returned all the misery and suffering he had created.
The door had a large metal plate overlaying the locking mechanism. Producing a crowbar from the inside of his long-coat, the shadowed man jammed its straight end between the plate and the frame, and with a grunt, forced the door open.
He allowed the door to swing open on its own, stepping onto the threshold but going no further. There was no light, and standing there in the dark he listened to the sounds of the building, the creaks on the floor, the tone of several voices in varying states of distress and laughter. He could smell the expected, urine, spoiled food, tobacco smoke, the rancid stink of narcotics soaked into the walls.
He could taste the depravity and corruption on his lips.
Venturing inside, he reached back and pulled the door closed.
A wind swept through the alley, taking bits of newspaper in its midst. The lapels of the three men on the ground wavering slightly.
A woman's scream rang out from inside the building, and the cracks of gunfire were matched by flashes of light in the windows.