Chapter 31:
[Drake POV]
[Warehouse District, New York City]
[Rooftop.] A crane moves shipping containers and loads them onto trucks. Tailing one, I follow one of the trucks to a warehouse. People gather at the back. A man stands at the open container. Each person at the site is a member of a high-profile gang. "Welcome, entrepreneurs," the man addresses the six individual gang bosses, "They say there are no shortcuts in life. Nothing is free. But I'm telling you that the deal I'm offering you is the closest thing to free you'll ever get." He lays out a yellow box. "Sounds too good to be true," a man in a large hoodie voiced aloud, "Rumor has it this thing is supposed to give the user powers." "You heard right," the dealer tells him and the others, smiling, "Unlike the other shits out there, the product provided by my employer is streamlined. No pods, no invasive experiments, and no chances of undesired side effects. One hour of power." Liking the pitch, they all nod their heads enthusiastically.
Off in the distance, multiple vehicles converge on the meeting location. HUD marked ten armed men. A rival Syndicate making a move. 'Not a problem. Perfect time to test run the product.' I tap the comlink to call the support team stationed within a craft hovering stationary nearby, "Drop in the asset." The Jump-carrier flies in low, deploying a containment pod nearby the warehouse. The hit squad stops their vehicle a few yards away. A humanoid figure exits the pod. Synthoid. It marks all its targets, "Commencing targets extermination." From my position, I can hear the slaughter taking place. It's a glorious display of violence. A gleeful grin appears under my mask.
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[Saint Agnes Shelter, New York City]
Several months have passed since I first volunteered to work at the shelter, but I still feel a little uneasy every time I walk through its doors. I was raised Jewish. And being the only Romani Jewish person on Catholic ground is a little unnerving. Saint Agnes Shelter is smack dab in the middle of Hell's Kitchen. Like the eye of the storm, it's a place of calm where people can come to feel safe. It's warm with food and plenty of people to talk to, people to give advice, or just listen. The shelter stands next to the church of the same name, Saint Agnes Church. Both are painted in classic red, now colored a sickly brown after decades of wear and tear.
"Wanda, you're just in time," sister Maggie says as she rounds past the gathered homeless, "Please see what you can do in the kitchen to help. The crew is very far behind." And with that sister, Maggie has gone on her way. I marvel at the woman. Unlike many younger nuns, sister Maggie is still decked out in the classic black and white penguin uniform. I sense the older woman will be uncomfortable with anything else. Like the habit loans her strength and purity of purpose, pushing her through the day. Originally I chose the job because I wanted something outside of the AVENGERS. A sense of normality. Plus, it's something for me to do while I'm not out on a mission.
[Kitchen.] I push open the kitchen door and see the place is a mess. Lasagna is the mess-produced meal of the evening which is no problem, but I immediately realize what has gone wrong. After all, I can, I miss the black smoking mess of burnt cheese and pasta sitting on top of the stove. "Didn't I tell you to watch the oven!" Sister Ellen shrieks at Manuela, another volunteer, "What were you thinking to let it burn like this?!"
"Excuse me, sister," Manuela snaps back, "But there are two other ovens and four lasagnas! I can't watch them all every second. I thought that is why there are two of us in here!" "Young woman," Sister Ellen barks sharply, though Manuela is probably 3-years her junior, "If you think for one moment I'm going to allow you to talk to me like–" "Excuse me," I cut in cheerfully, making my presence known before the exchange gets heated. Both women turn to face me in surprise, then exasperation on their faces. As if each one were trying to say, 'this is what I'm forced to deal with.' I wait patiently as two women explain what happened, constantly interrupting one another in a process. Eventually, they stop and await my judgment, though I'm the lowest person on the ladder. I sigh. The nun, of course, has seniority over Manuela. Even though Ellen isn't one of the most formidable sisters running the shelter. Not wanting to take any sides in the argument, I press the fact that there are a lot of hungry people waiting, so we shouldn't waste time bickering. The two scowl at each other, but they put a pause on their petty squabble to complete their tasks.
[Basement.] Tables stretch throughout the basement. Coffee and sodas spread across them, forgotten momentarily as Sister Maggie, Ellen, Manuela, and two other volunteers serve the lasagna. Ten minutes pass before I rush out with a big bowl of salad that would complete their meal. The evening guests greet me warmly. Not all of the guests smiled. The specter of their lives lingered. Many are newly homeless due to the Battle of NYC. I've experienced war, and the survivors look exactly what these people demonstrate. Many of them suffer from nightmares and other forms of PTSD, and children as well.
"You're a dead man, Monroe!" a man shouts at a resident. A chair is pushed back, echoing a harsh fingernail screech across the floor, and a tall man in his 40s shoots to his feet. His manner and the hard look on his sharp-featured face are an obvious challenge. Then the knife comes out. "Get up," he shouts, boasting the knife at Monroe. "Roberto, you put down that knife!" Manuela says sharply, striding toward the man before I even thought to move. I've seen the aftermath of knife work, and moving in close to a man brandishing one would not be my first course of action. "Not until his blood is on it," Roberto growls coldly, shooting daggers at Monroe. Sister Maggie puts herself between the men. "Roberto, give me the knife," she says softly, "Now." In the hushed room, each syllable is crystal clear.
"Monroe stole from me, Sister. I haven't lost enough? I have put up with this punk thief stealing my late wife's pendant. He's a dead man!" Roberto states. He starts to slide around Sister Maggie toward Monroe. *SMACK!* Roberto's head rocks back from Sister Maggie's slap. He spins around to stare at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, a hand on his cheek. "If the pendant is yours I will bet it back," Sister Maggie says firmly, "But don't you dare ever threaten anyone. Don't you dare raise your hand, with or without a weapon in Saint Agnes again. You should be ashamed of yourself, Roberto." Roberto's attention is fully on Sister Maggie now. For a moment, I was nervous for the old nun because I thought Roberto would attack her. Seconds tick by. Roberto crumbles. His shoulders fall in sync with his chin, which slumps to his chest. The man hands the knife gingerly to Sister Maggie. The old nun turns, eyes narrowing, toward Monroe, "Young man, do that pendant belong to you?" "I don't know what he's talking about," Monroe answers, but his smirk belies his gesture of innocence. "You don't? I don't recall ever seeing you with a pendant before today. And we keep a record of everyone's belongings when they first enter here so we can avoid these situations," Sister Maggie says, giving the man a hard look. Monroe says nothing.
It's no secret that the man has a long history of drug use and is willing to do anything for his next fix. Lie, steal, or hurt someone. Using my hex powers, I take the pendant and return it to Roberto. "Finish your meal and leave," I tell the man. Monroe glares hotly at everyone, slaps the food away, then turns toward the door. Sister Maggie breathes out a breath she's been holding. The moment Monroe steps out of the shelter, everything goes to normal.
[Matt Murdock POV]
[Courthouse, New York City]
[Courtroom.] I stand before the jury. Take in the sound of their heartbeats. Some are calm, Some are tired, and others are agitated. My main focus is on the man in the witness seat. Quesada. The man who stands accus of rape and murder. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," I start to say, keeping my focus in their general direction, "We are here today to seek truth. To seek justice." Slowly, I aim my unseeing gaze on Quesada. He flinches uneasily. Not because of me but my client's hateful glare. Megan Tillman. The victim's sister. "Mr. Quesada, would you state for the court sequence of events leading to February 20th?" I ask. "After work I stopped at a bar. Local place. Had a few drinks. Videl was there. She was closing up. Asked if I wanted to stick around for an after party celebration. Everything that happened after that was entirely consensual." Foggy is going through the police reports. His heartbeat is unsteady. The man is lying through his teeth. "Are you aware perjury is a crime, Mr. Quesada?" "Objection!" Quesada's lawyer shouts.
Quesada leans forward, elbows touching his knees, "The truth is, Mr. Murdock, I'm a businessman. A respected member of the community, where Videl was a Junkie and a dunk. After our one-night stand, what happened to that woman had nothing to do with me. Hell, I'm surprised she wasn't killed sooner with the way she lived her life. Hell's Kitchen is a very dangerous place." I clench my grip tightly around the handle of my cane until my knuckles turn stone white, then step closer into the man's personal space, "Mr. Quesada, for your sake, I hope justice is found here today before it finds you." The judge slams down the gavel. As we leave the courtroom, Foggy tells me Jeri Hogarth is by the entrance.
[Nelson & Murdock Attorney Office, New York City]
"Are you kidding me?!" I yell at Jeri Hogarth, a high-profile lawyer who works directly under the DA's office. The woman rocks her head, "No, Mr. Murdock. This is no Joke. Quesada made a very appealing deal to the DA. For protection and leniency, he's willing to surrender the information to a bigger trafficking operation. This isn't a simple assault case anymore, Mr. Murdock. It's political now. All eyes are on the DA. Especially now that his name is on a valet." Megan Tillman slams a hand on the table, "That bastard raped and murdered my sister!" "Allegedly," Hogarth remarks unsympathetically to the victim's sister, "No evidence supports the claim Quesada had any involvement in Ms. Tillman's murder." "In other words the DA is willing to let Quesada go with a smack on the wrist by selling out a bigger prize. Where's the justice? Quesada should be rotting in prison," I growl. Hogarth waves it off with an eye roll, "The deal has already been finalized. This was only a professional courtesy notice."
The woman gathers her things and leaves. I place my hands balled into fists at my side, struggling to calm my anger. Megan drops her head, tears flowing freely now. The feeling of failure is drowning her. As an older sibling, her duty was to protect her younger sister from harm, like an unspoken oath. I can sense her burning with rage within. May not be a mind reader, but I know the sensation of wanting to strike out at the ones who wronged you. To make them feel your pain. "Quesada is going to face justice for what he did, Megan. I promise you," I say with a determined tone.
[Hours later, Excalibur, New York City]
[Rooftop.] I track Quesada to a sleazy dive bar deep in Soho. Via a window, I watch Quesada bragging to his fellow lowlifes that he's untouchable. By the end of the night, the scumbag will be singing a different tone. [Inside.] I prowl through the skyline window and station myself on one of the ceiling pillars, staying within the shadows. None of the patrons take notice. With my radar senses, I scan the area and count 20 people. Five are armed. Quesada sniffs up a white line.
A woman marches up to the scumbag's table, "The hell are you doing in my club, Quesada?" The man shoots her a leering sneer, "Celebrating my freedom," he holds up a glass bottle in a toasting motion. The gang surrounding the man copies him, cheering. "You're too hot. You bring a lot of unwanted attention to my place," she growls. "Hey, the club's neutral grounds. Cops don't come here without express permission. And I haven't broken any rules to be kicked out," Quesada says patronizingly, "And we all know how much of a stickler you are about the rules, Bayek." Bayek flashes him a dangerous gaze, "It's not the cops you should be concerned about. It's the masked crusaders. Folks like the Devil of Hell's Kitchen."
Quesada glowers. The two glare each other down. "Plus," Bayek starts, "I don't like little limp-dick rapists crawling around my place. It makes my employees uneasy. And I don't like it when my employees feel uneasy. Makes for bad business." Quesada bares his teeths, "Didn't you hear? I was acquitted of all charges." The club owner barks a laugh, "I don't give a damn what the judge's verdict was." Quesada's face turns into a rageful expression. He shoots a hand out and grabs the woman roughly by the arm, "Watch your mouth, Bayek. This club may be neutral ground, but that doesn't make you safe. You don't want another trip to the ER, don't you?"
Not wasting any time, I drop onto Quesada's table. "What the fuck?!" Quesada yells, falling back on his ass. Everyone's eyes are on me, jaws hanging. There's a long, dragged-out silence. A person could hear a pin drop. A few of the patrons begin to back away. The woman stares between Quesada and me. "This piece of shit is all yours, Daredevil. Do whatever you want with him," Bayek says. She then turns to the onlookers, "Everyone get hell out! The club is now closed for the evening!" Everyone who isn't a part of Quesada's gang rushes to the exit.
One of Quesada's men draws a pistol and aims it at my hand. In a blink of an eye, I take control of the gun, yank it away, then shoot a fist to the goon's face, breaking his nose. The guy on the left comes at me next, slashing his knife horizontally. I dock low, shoot in close, upper-cut-elbow his face, then hip-throw him to the floor. I push-kick bad-guy-3 in the gut, sending him flying to the wall. The others are frozen in place. A few of them had crossed paths with me at one point or another. They were fully aware of what I was capable of. Quesada shouts for them to attack. They instead run off with the patrons. It's just Quesada and me.
The man is shaking in complete terror. Quesada starts to dash for the exit, but I pull him back with the grapple-line. "You can't do this! I was acquitted!" he tries, struggling desperately to get free. I grab the man by the collar and pull him in until our faces are only inches apart. The man's heart is beating fast, utterly in fear. "First, you'll tell me everything about a trafficking operation. Second, you're going to confess to the rape and murder of Videl Tillman," I demand. Exiting the club, I leave behind a tied-up Quesada for the police.
[Spartan POV]
[Warehouse District, New York City]
Out on patrol, I take a break on one of the city rooftops. Over the comlink, Wanda is telling me about her day at the shelter. "Sister Maggie sounds like one tough old lady," I say. Wanda giggles on the other side of the line, "She sure is. Her strength is admirable. Reminds me of my own grandmother." I smirk amusingly, then turn slightly serious, "Monroe. Is the guy going to be a problem?" "I don't think so, maybe. He has a history of violence. We will keep an eye on him. The man is not completely beyond saving," Wanda says to me confidently, "Anyway, what are you doing?" I scan the city skyline, "On patrol. Going to do one last lap around." "Any hits?" she asks. I nod, "A few. Nothing crazy like last night. At least so far." "Well, if you run into a situation like last night, don't be afraid to call for backup. You're not alone. You got me, Karai, and even DD," Wanda voices. I smile brightly, "You're so cute when you're concerned about me like that." I can almost picture Wanda blushing wildly. "Don't make fun of me, you ass!" she yells halfheartedly. "I'll see you back at the Bunker," I say, ending the call. "Be safe!" Wanda calls out as the line closes.
EPYON tags an alert across my HUD. It leads to the warehouse district. Dead bodies are the first thing I catch sight of as I set foot into the warehouse. All of them lay sprawled on the ground. I move toward one and kneel down to inspect it. The HUD runs a facial scan. It gets hit almost instantaneously. Each of the dead was a high-ranking member of the gangs controlling the area. 'Shady back alley deal gone wrong?' is my first thought. Not the first time it has happened. A common enough occurrence. Standing up, the site looks like the aftermath of a small war zone. I note the shell casing. Pick up one, and study it. Military-grade nato rounds. High quality. Not the type of ammunition you can buy in a regular gun store. In the distance, not far from the warehouse, I catch sight of a wrecked, tipped-over vehicle. The vehicle is a large black SUV. Enough room to fit six people. Stiding to the vehicle driver's side, I note the perpetrator managed to get a clean shot at the man's head. An instant kill. Lost control and crashed, killing four passengers on impact. The other surviving two tried to retreat but were ultimately gunned down. The last was ripped to pieces by a hail of bullets.
Suddenly, HUD picks up a strange energy signature coming from behind the warehouse. Emerging around the corner, I spot an impact crater. Inside is an empty pod. The type of pod used for high altitude drop in combat zones. By the size, whatever was inside this thing was big. Motioning back to the warehouse, something on the ground ensnares my observation. I crouch down to find a capsule-like pill. A faint golden glow radiated from it. Via HUD scan, it's a compound mixture of Bio-tech and Nano-tech.