The Sanctuary's lobby is well kept and has a homely, welcoming feel to it.
"Good morning, how can I help you?" the woman behind the oak counter asks her. Her black, magenta tinted hair goes well with her chocolate skin. She is quite beautiful, but there is a fierceness in her dark eyes that tells Karen she shouldn't waste time in stating her business — this is a woman who's got things to do. She reads the plaque. 'Gamora Alarsi' it says.
"I want to rent a room." She states simply.
Gamora shows her the vast array of rooms and flats that are available via a 2D map. The ones with red pins are already taken. She has to choose quickly because college students would barge in through the doors any moment soon and book out the entire place. Karen goes with the studio apartment knockoff, as Gamora calls it. It has this little living room, bedroom and toilet but no kitchen. Its affordable — less than she thought it would cost.
Karen pays for it in cash, a period of three months. Miss Alarsi doesn't seem curious and makes the transaction while informing her of the free WiFi service available from six to eight in the morning and from five to nine in the evening. Cable is unlimited.
"We also have a home style kitchen where you can cook for yourself. It has its own fee. Or you can sign up for the breakfast, lunch and dinner service. Dinner is free on Christmas and Thanksgiving."
Once they are done, Gamora hands Karen her key and puts away her luggage in storage. The blonde woman says a quick goodbye and almost runs back to the truck where Luke is waiting. Five minutes later the vehicles lurches to a stop in front of a three story building back on Central Avenue. The man gives her the number to the auto repair shop, "Mack & Cage's'.
She checks the time. She's one minute late. She brushes her hair back to look presentable and enters the newspaper agency. Three pairs of eyes turn to scrutinise her and then return back to work. The office is in a bustle. Not unlike New York. Just as loud, just as rushed but not as many people. She walks to the tiny lobby where a heavyset woman is furiously typing on the computer.
"Hello, I'm Karen Page and I have an appointment starting... one minute ago, with a certain J. Jonah Jameson."
"You're the New York lady. Jonah's waiting for you on the second floor. Can't miss his office." The woman replies without looking up. Karen nods and makes her way upstairs. Nobody stops her.
The moment she reaches the second floor, the most scornful voice she's ever heard booms, "Marty, get your ass over there. Where in the fuckety fuck is Willa Willis? Tell her this story is so raw its still trying to find Nemo! Where the hell are those photos from Stark? Jesus, what are we running here? Pleasant Hill's post office? Y'all as slow as fuck. My grandma could outrun you, and she's dead!" The sound of a door slamming seems to shake the entire building. That must be Jonah.
She quickly strides to where the sound came from. The door is lettered with the man's name along with 'Editor in Chief' in a faded Droid Serif font. The letters o and r are missing in editor. She knocks thrice.
"Come in!" He bellows from the inside. His office is cramped. Cabinets are overflowing with files. Piles upon piles of paper are haphazardly placed around the room.
"The fuck are you?" Jameson is a tall, beady eyed man with a flat topped haircut, his temples already gray. His face is long, permanent wrinkles resting on his forehead, the result of scowling too much, Karen presumes. A square moustache lies under his hawkish nose. He had been in the process of lighting up a cigarette so the offending item is still in between his teeth.
"Karen Page. We have an appointment. Sorry for being late." She says. Ben had said first impressions matter to Jonah. Her first was being late but she was making up for it.
"Nah." He waves her apology away. "Gave me time to yell at those fuckers." She is unfazed by his vulgarity. She's heard worse.
"Sit down, Miss Page." He orders gruffly and throws the cigar into the trash bin.
"Ben told me of your..." Jonah taps his fingertips together. "Predicament." Karen doesn't answer.
"Miss Page this agency is a rusty but smooth running machine. It ain't the Times or the Bulletin but its still a newspaper. We report what matters to the folk of this town and county. What they want and need to know. I know what y'all city folk think; we run gossip columns on who married who and who had a baby. Its much more than that. So I want you to give this paper your all. I want you to love this work, because nobody forced you to be here. You get me, Karen?"
"Yes. I understand, Mr. Jameson. Thank you by the way, for accepting Ben's request."
Jonah sighs. "Yeah. Now, get on to Brock. Big, brown hair. Has birthmark on forehead. He'll give you the necessary contracts to sign. Take your time reading them then he'll show you your desk. Have a good day, Karen."
The woman nodded. Just as she was about to leave the tiny office, Jonah called out "And Miss Page? Don't get big headed."
- Line Break -
Steve immediately senses the break in wasn't the reason Nick called him when he arrives at the Town Hall. The staff work at a normal pace and there seems to be no panic. Second, Detective Mercedes 'Misty' Knight is there. There is simply no need to call two well established officers for a sole purpose, even a break in. Nick doesn't work that way. Misty spots him and walks over.
"Morning, Cap. I've done the necessary. Suspect, motive; lock, stock and barrel. I've got this."
"I know." He pats her shoulder. "Keep up the good work, detective." He takes long strides and in a moment is before a door. He hesitates before speaking.
"Mr. Mayor?"
"Come in, Sheriff." Nick Fury's brooding voice answers. Steve carefully got in, shoulders tense. His fingers kept running over his Glock in pure nervousness. He'd never felt this way in front of anybody. Something was going on.
"How've you been, Rogers?" The Mayor asks without looking at him. He's in his usual attire; black suit, black shirt, black eye patch. One long leg is draped over a knee.
"Good, all things considered." Steve replied warily.
"You might want to sit down kid." Nick's bony hand waves him over to a leather armchair.
The sheriff complied and settled into the comfortable seat. "Am I fired?" He jokingly asks in an attempt to lighten up the mood.
"There is no humor in that, Steve. Men like you are rare in your line of work. So yes, you still have your job." The man sighs as he stands up, walking to the window with his back to Steve.
"I suppose this isn't about the break in?"
"You know me."
"I'll take that as a no. Nick, what's going on?" Silence. The tension continues to uncoil like asnake. Its killing Steve inside. Something terrible has happened. Fury is a straightforward man and the fact that he has personally requested his presence is troubling.
"Bernie's dead."
The short sentence is like a slap to Steve's face. His breath gets caught in his throat, a yawning pit forming in the depths of his stomach. He can't think. He has to blink several times to make sure he us still within the bounds of reality. Denial is already developing in the back of his mind. Somehow the words Bernie and dead don't fit together.
"How?" He doesn't know why he asks the question. His heart is beating too fast.
"Plowed down by a drunk driver. You know Floridians. Crazy ass sorts of people."
More silence. Then, "I-I need to go."
"They done and buried her, kid. She died four days ago. Brother got body on the plane same day she went to kingdom come. Put her in the ground yesterday afternoon. You weren't informed because you're a hard person to find. Until today. I'm tthe closest thing you got to an emergency contact."
Steve's face is in his hands, eyes firmly screwed shut. Some part of him wants to scream itsnot real. He knows better than that. Death waits for no one. It takes and ravages wherever it can, whenever it pleases. When he opens his eyes, black spots dance in his vision. A headache is starting to exhibit itself.
"That isn't the only reason I called you. The people who called me are Child Protection Services." Steve's head shoots up.
"What? Bernie and I — we didn't..." Grief is replaced by confusion. Fury is now looking at him.
"I guess she lied to you and the court, then. She was four months pregnant when she filed for divorce."
And his whole world crumbles into fine, ashen dust.