Chapter 55:
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[Saint Agnes Shelter, New York City]
The shelter has been far busier in the last few weeks since the uptick in violent crimes. It's disheartening to witness the impact of the city's deteriorating safety on the faces of those who seek refuge here. I stand at the heart of the Saint Agnes Shelter, watching as the worn and weary trickle in, each carrying their own heavy burden of fear and uncertainty. The once-familiar faces of the shelter's residents now share space with newcomers, their eyes reflecting the harsh realities of life on the streets. I can't help but feel a profound sadness as I see the desperation etched into their expressions. They come here seeking safety, a warm meal, and a place to rest; their faith in humanity's kindness holding them together in these turbulent times. The shelter's dedicated staff and volunteers work tirelessly, offering solace and support to those who've sought refuge within its walls. The atmosphere is charged with both resilience and vulnerability, a testament to the indomitable spirit of those facing adversity head-on. With each passing day, I use my unique abilities to bring a glimmer of hope to the shelter's residents. I offer a reassuring touch, a comforting presence, and the knowledge that they are not alone in their struggles. In these moments, I find purpose, knowing that even in the face of chaos, small acts of kindness and compassion can make a world of difference.
Sister Maggie, a constant pillar of strength at Saint Agnes Shelter, strolls over to me, her face a portrait of unwavering compassion amidst the turmoil of the shelter. Her presence is a source of comfort for all who seek refuge here. With a warm smile, she gently asks if I can do her a small favor. Her request is likely to be selfless and aimed at making the lives of those under her care just a bit more bearable. I nod in agreement, eager to assist in any way I can, grateful for the opportunity to contribute to the shelter's mission of hope and support. The old nun's kind eyes hold a sense of relief as she makes her request, "Can you please deliver these boxes of food to the Kennish family?" Her request is not just a matter of sustenance; it's an act of love and care for a family struggling in these difficult times. I nod with a sense of purpose, understanding the significance of the task. Sister Maggie quickly jots down the Kennish family's address, her script neat and deliberate on a slip of paper. With a nod, she hands it to me, and I accept it, understanding the gravity of the task at hand. With the address in hand, I prepare to embark on my journey, ready to carry the boxes of food to the Kennish family. Sister Maggie's trust in me reflects the bond of community and solidarity that the shelter embodies.
[Apartment Complex, New York City]
Fortunately, the Kennish family's residence is within walking distance from the shelter, a stroke of luck that makes the task ahead seem all the more manageable. With the boxes of food in hand, I set out on the short journey through the streets of New York City. Navigating the apartment complex, I begin the ascent up the flight of stairs, each step bringing me closer to my destination. However, as I reach the designated floor, my attention is drawn to a scene that tugs at my heartstrings. Sitting alone on one of the steps is a young girl, no older than 16, her youthful face illuminated by the soft glow of a cigarette she holds in her hand. The sight of her, alone and seemingly lost in her thoughts, is a stark reminder of the harsh realities faced by many in the city. In her eyes, I can see a mixture of weariness and resilience, a young soul forced to confront the challenges of life far too early. For a moment, I hesitate, torn between continuing on my mission to deliver the food to the Kennish family and the urge to offer a word of comfort or assistance to this young girl.
Taking a step closer to the young girl, I position myself next to her, leaving a respectful distance between us. I offer a kind smile, attempting to convey a sense of understanding and empathy. "You okay?" I gently inquire, my voice soft and filled with genuine concern. The girl looks up at me, her gaze meeting mine, but she remains silent. The faint bruise on her cheek does not go unnoticed, a silent testament to the hardships she may have endured. It's a painful reminder of the harsh realities faced by vulnerable individuals in the city, especially someone as young as her. I don't press her for answers, respecting her need for space and privacy. Instead, I silently convey my readiness to listen and offer assistance if she chooses to open up. At this moment, my presence serves as a reminder that there are caring souls willing to extend a helping hand to those in need, even amid life's challenges.
Down the hallway a man emerges from an apartment down the hallway, the very apartment where the Kennish family resides. His presence draws my attention, and I can't help but notice a cloud of unease. The girl by my side offers a quiet commentary, her voice barely above a whisper. "My dad's boss. Not the type of person you want to make friends with," she confides, her words carrying a weight of caution. I glance back at the girl, "You're the Kennish's daughter?" The girl nods in affirmation, a hint of weariness in her expression. "Unfortunately," she admits, her response offering a glimpse into the complexities of her family's situation.
Setting the box of food down beside the young girl, I offer her a reassuring smile. "Sister Maggie sent me to deliver a box of food," I explain, hoping to put her at ease. She opens the box, revealing its contents, and pulls out a snack bar. "Thanks," she says quietly, a hint of gratitude in her voice. It's a small but meaningful gesture, and her appreciation warms my heart. Her words of caution, however, serve as a reminder of the difficult situation she faces at home. "You should leave now," she advises, her voice tinged with resignation, "I doubt you want to be around when the shouting starts." Understanding the delicate nature of her family's circumstances, I nod in acknowledgment. "Take care," I tell her sincerely, offering a final smile before I begin to make my exit, leaving her with the food and the hope that better days may come for her and her family.
As I begin to make my way down the hallway, my footsteps carry me away from the apartment where the Kennish family resides. However, my curiosity gets the better of me, and my gaze shifts back to the man standing in the hallway, his back turned to me, obscuring his face from view. Inside the apartment, the muffled voices of two men engaged in a heated argument reach my ears, but the walls and distance make it impossible for me to discern the words being exchanged.
[Hours Later, Bunker, New York City]
Following a long and grueling day at the shelter, I finally sink into the comfortable reclining chair in the sanctuary of the bunker. The exhaustion from the day's efforts washes over me, and I can feel the weight of my responsibilities settling in my bones. Recognizing my tired state, Spartan steps forward. He's attuned to my needs and understands the toll that my work at the shelter can take on me. With gentle and knowing hands, he begins to massage my tired shoulders. The tension and weariness that had accumulated throughout the day slowly starts to dissipate under his skilled touch. It's a gesture of care and support, a reminder that I'm not alone in this challenging journey. I close my eyes, letting myself fully relax as the soothing massage eases the physical and emotional strain of the day. Spartan's hands continue their skilled work, easing the knots and tension from my weary shoulders. His concern for my well-being is evident when he asks, "Long day?" I nod in response, relishing the comfort of his touch. "Yeah, but it's nothing I can't handle," I reply, my voice carrying a note of determination. Shifting our conversation to our ongoing responsibilities, I inquire about any new developments on the DEMONS front. Spartan shakes his head, his expression reflecting the latest intelligence. "They've been inactive for a week now," he reports a hint of caution in his tone. The mention of the DEMONS, a known threat in the city's criminal underworld, keeps us both vigilant. Even a brief respite in their activities is notable and raises questions about their intentions. In our line of work, complacency is never an option, and we remain prepared for any unforeseen challenges that may arise in the days to come.
My attention is momentarily drawn to the corner of the room, where a news broadcast plays on a screen. The headline that flashes across the screen catches my eye, and my heart skips a beat: "Family slain." The shock and horror intensify when I see that it's the Kennish family who were the victims of this tragic event. My eyes go wide as I process the devastating news. The same family I had encountered earlier today. The room falls silent as I absorb the gravity of the situation. As I continue to watch the news report, the names of the victims are soberly listed: the father, the mother, and the son. However, there is a noticeable omission. There is no mention of the daughter, the young girl I had encountered earlier. The absence of her name from the list of victims is perplexing. It raises questions about her fate and whereabouts. I turn to Spartan and quickly run him through my encounter with the girl. "Spartan," I begin, my voice carrying a sense of urgency, "When I was delivering the food to the Kennish family earlier today, I encountered their daughter in the hallway. She seems troubled, and there's a bruise on her cheek, indicating she might be facing some difficulties at home. She mentions that the man who emerges from their apartment is her dad's boss and not someone to befriend. It was clear to me she didn't like or trusted the man." As I speak, I can see the concern in Spartan's eyes. He knows that this situation has taken a grim turn with the news of the family's tragedy. I continue, "Now, with the news reporting that the Kennish family has been slain, there's no mention of their daughter. It's as if she's missing or unaccounted for. I can't shake the feeling that something isn't adding up here. We need to find out what happened to her and ensure her safety."
Spartan immediately starts running a search on the girl via the EPYON system, utilizing the description of the girl I provided him. His fingers fly across the keyboard as he enters the relevant details into the system. The computer screen flickers with activity as it begins to process the information, scanning databases and cross-referencing data to locate any potential matches or leads regarding the girl's whereabouts. Minutes pass in tense silence until, suddenly, a hit flashes across the screen. Spartan's sharp eyes lock onto the information displayed before us. The EPYON system has yielded a result, and a sense of relief washes over us both. The information on the EPYON system reveals that the girl was last seen on CCTV footage dashing toward the subway station, chased by two large men. My heart sinks as the pieces of this grim puzzle start coming together. Without saying a word, I charge toward the door. Spartan follows right behind me, his steps echoing my urgency. We know that time is of the essence, and we need to find the young girl who has become entangled in a dangerous situation.
[Train Station, New York City]
Spartan and I follow EPYON's waypoint to the station where the girl was last seen. As we continue to follow the waypoint, a sobering thought lingers in my mind. I can't help but consider the various scenarios that could have unfolded since the girl was last seen at the station. My heart weighs heavily with the possibilities. "Much as I don't want to consider the negative options," I say quietly to Spartan, "There's a chance the girl managed to escape and is long gone. That's the best-case scenario. The worst-case scenario, we're too late, and something terrible has happened to her." My voice carries the weight of the grim reality we face. Spartan's expression reflects the same concerns, but we both know that we cannot afford to give in to despair. Our mission is to find answers and do everything in our power to ensure the girl's safety. With each step deeper into the station, our determination to uncover the truth and find the girl only grows stronger.
The station, which should typically be bustling with commuters, is surprisingly empty. There is not a single person in sight. Spartan, always the voice of reason, offers a rational explanation as we cautiously navigate the eerily empty station. "It could be because of the freezing weather," he suggests, "People might be avoiding the cold and staying indoors. The only reason we can't feel the cold is due to our suits." I nod in agreement, realizing that his explanation makes sense. Our specialized suits provide us with protection from the elements, including the biting cold. It's a reminder that sometimes, the simplest explanations can account for unusual circumstances. Nevertheless, we remain vigilant, our senses finely tuned as we continue to search for any signs of the girl. The empty station, while explained, still leaves us on edge, knowing that the situation could take unexpected turns at any moment.
Continuing our search through the empty station, I suddenly come to a halt when I spot a pack of cigarettes on the floor. It's the same brand the girl had smoked. What makes it stand out to me is that it's one of those cheap, less-known brands that not many people buy. I bend down to pick up the pack and then hold it out to Spartan. "Think EPYON can track the girl based on her cigarette brand?" I ask, my voice laced with hope that this small clue could lead us to her whereabouts. Spartan nods in response to my question. He activates the visor, and it starts to flicker as it scans the pack of cigarettes.
Tracking the path, we stride onto the subway platform and approach the edge of the tunnel. The anticipation builds, and hope surges through me as we may be closing in on the girl's location. Spartan points towards the tunnel and states, "Track leads down there." His words are concise and to the point, confirming that the EPYON system has identified a trail to follow. We exchange determined glances, ready to delve into the subway tunnel. Spartan takes the point. We venture deeper into the subway tunnel, and it becomes apparent that this path leads to an abandoned part of the station. It's an area that has been closed off since the early 60s, left untouched for decades. The air grows colder, and a sense of isolation settles in as we step into this forgotten section of the station. The dim lighting casts eerie shadows on the walls, and the silence is deafening. Our footsteps echo in the desolate space as we tread cautiously, uncertain of what we might encounter in this long-forgotten corner of the subway. The mysteries surrounding the girl's disappearance seem to deepen with each step we take, and we are acutely aware that we are delving into the unknown. A sudden sound breaks the eerie silence. The echoes of a girl crying reach our ears, and it's coming from a staff room nearby. My heart races with a mixture of relief and concern. Without hesitation, we move towards the source of the cries.
Entering the staff room, Spartan takes the lead and sweeps the area for any potential threats. "Clear," he calls out, indicating that there are no immediate dangers present. I go into the room after Spartan and quickly catch sight of the girl huddled in the corner. She appears to be in distress, and my immediate instinct is to approach her with care and reassurance. "Hey, it's okay," I say gently as I kneel down beside her, offering a comforting presence, "We're here to help. You're safe now." My voice carries a soothing tone, and I extend my hand to her, ready to offer help. Our eyes lock in a moment of recognition, and it's clear that the girl immediately remembers me. Her trembling voice breaks the silence as she speaks, "You're that lady from before." I offer a reassuring smile, relieved that she recognizes me and that Spartan and I found her. "Yes, that's right," I reply softly, maintaining a calm and reassuring demeanor. "We've been looking for you. Are you okay? Can you tell us what happened?" The girl's eyes hold a mixture of fear and relief, and it's evident that she has been through a distressing experience. Putting our questions on hold for the moment, it's clear that our immediate priority is to get the girl to a safe and secure location. She's been through a traumatic experience, and her well-being is our primary concern. Spartan and I exchange a silent understanding and nod in agreement. We gently help the girl to her feet, ready to lead her out of the abandoned staff room and away from this desolate part of the subway station.
[Safe House, New York City]
The girl sits quietly at the table, her gaze distant as she processes the recent events. Spartan walks over and stands next to me, his arms crossed, and he inquires, "How is she doing?" I lean against the wall, my eyes still on the girl. "She hasn't said a word since we arrived," I reply, my voice filled with concern. It's clear that the traumatic experience has left its mark on her, and we need to tread carefully, giving her the time and space. Spartan lets out a sigh, his expression reflecting the urgency of the situation. "Time isn't a luxury we have right now," he remarks, "The killers are still out there." His words serve as a stark reminder that, even in the midst of caring for the girl and ensuring her safety, we cannot lose sight of the larger threat posed by those responsible for the tragedy that befell her family.
I cross the room and take a seat across from the girl at the table. Her silence is palpable as I begin to speak. "I'm sorry for what happened to your family," I start, my voice filled with empathy. The girl simply nods in response to my words, her emotions still too raw to find the words to express her feelings. I offer a gentle, understanding smile, knowing that there are no words that can fully alleviate the pain she must be experiencing. "I never got your name the first time we met," I begin, my voice gentle as I sit across from the girl, "and I think it's important that we get to know each other a little better. My name is Wanda. Wanda Maximoff." As I introduce myself, I offer a kind and reassuring smile, hoping to establish a sense of trust and comfort in our conversation. The girl, who had been through so much already, responds with a quiet but clear, "Tali Kennish." Her voice carries a hint of vulnerability, yet she maintains a certain level of resilience, which is evident in the way she meets my gaze. The exchange of names is a small but significant step in building a connection between us. It's a gesture that acknowledges our shared humanity. My introduction is not just a formality; it's an invitation for her to see me as someone she can confide in, trust, and lean on during this difficult time.
The sudden entry of Spartan startles Tali. Her jump and the wide-eyed reaction convey the tension she is feeling in this unfamiliar setting. I quickly recognize Tali's surprise and offer an apologetic smile on behalf of Spartan. "Sorry about that," I say gently, "That's Spartan. He's my partner." Spartan enters the room with a bag of food in hand. His demeanor is reassuring, and he makes an effort to show kindness and understanding toward Tali. "I brought some food for you," he adds, lifting the bag slightly to emphasize its purpose.
Tali's curiosity gradually awakens. Her surroundings, unfamiliar and shrouded in mystery, beckon her to take in her new environment. The room itself is likely stark and utilitarian, a temporary refuge designed for moments just like this. The table she sits at is simple, yet it has become the epicenter of a significant encounter. The walls, perhaps painted in neutral colors, bear witness to the stories of countless individuals who seek shelter within this safe haven. Tali's surroundings are both a sanctuary and a reminder of the harsh realities of the world outside. As she glances around, her eyes eventually land on Spartan and me. In this moment, we are more than just strangers who have entered her life. We represent a lifeline, a bridge to answers, safety, and perhaps a glimmer of hope in a world that has turned inexplicably dark for her. Her question, "Who are you people?" hangs in the air, pregnant with curiosity and a hint of caution. It's a question that transcends the boundaries of mere introductions; it's a question about trust, about the intentions of those who have come to her rescue.
From Tali's perspective, Spartan and I are enigmatic figures who have appeared at a crucial juncture in her life. We are individuals who have reached out a helping hand, but our true identities and motivations are still shrouded in uncertainty. Her query holds the power to unlock a deeper understanding between us. In her voice, there is a plea for transparency, a desire to make sense of the chaotic events that have unfolded since our first encounter in the subway station. In response to her inquiry, I know that actions will speak louder than words. With a steady hand, I reach into my jacket and retrieve the SHIELD badge. It is a symbol of my allegiance to a higher purpose, an emblem that represents more than just an organization—it symbolizes a commitment to protecting the vulnerable. I hold the badge before Tali, allowing her to study the engraved symbol—the same symbol that adorns my heart and guides my actions. There is no need for elaborate explanations or grand declarations. The badge itself conveys the essence of our mission. "It's what we do," I state calmly, my voice carrying the weight of unwavering resolve, "We defend the defenseless." These words are not just a response; they are a creed, a solemn promise to be a shield for those in need. They encapsulate the essence of our purpose and the driving force behind our actions.
The room falls into a long silence. After a while, I press the girl to tell us what happened. Tali's eyes dart nervously around the room as if seeking an escape from her haunting memories. Spartan and I share a knowing glance, recognizing that this is the crucial moment, the point where we must gently coax the truth from her, helping her begin the difficult process of sharing her ordeal. Taking a deep breath, I lean forward, my voice soft and gentle, offering a soothing balm for her wounded soul. "Tali," I begin, my gaze locked onto hers, "I know this is incredibly difficult, but we need to understand what happened. Can you tell us anything?" My words hold an unspoken promise of support, a commitment to stand by her every step of the way. Tali's eyes remain fixed on the table, her fingers tracing the worn wood's edge, a nervous habit betraying her anxiety. She hesitates, the weight of her memories too heavy to bear. But I see the turmoil in her eyes, the need to unburden herself, to release the pain that has festered within her.
Spartan places a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We're here to help, Tali," he adds, his voice warm and inviting. "And whatever you can share will be a step toward finding those responsible and ensuring this doesn't happen to anyone else." Tali takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with effort. Her voice, though trembling, begins to weave a harrowing narrative, a tale of fear, loss, and survival. As she speaks, the room transforms into a sanctuary for her words, each syllable a testament to her bravery, a beacon illuminating the darkness that has clouded her world. The silence that once gripped the room is now filled with the haunting echoes of Tali's story. The weight of her words hangs in the air, but it's also a release, a catharsis that allows her to reclaim a small piece of the life stolen from her. Spartan and I listen intently.
"I was in my room," Tali began, her voice barely above a whisper. "I heard raised voices coming from the living room—a heated argument. I knew something was wrong, so I went to see what was happening." Her words painted a vivid picture, and it was clear that she was reliving the horrifying moments. Tears welled up in Tali's eyes as she continued, her voice quivering with emotion. "When I got to the living room, I saw them...two masked men. They were shouting at my parents and my brother. They...they had guns." Her voice broke as she recalled the traumatic scene. "I hid behind the wall, just out of sight, and I watched as they...as they..." Tali couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence, but the anguish in her eyes spoke volumes. Spartan and I exchanged a somber glance, our hearts heavy with the weight of Tali's words. It was a horrific ordeal that no one should ever have to witness, let alone endure. But we knew that her account was a critical piece of the puzzle, one that would help us understand the events that had transpired that fateful night. "After they...did what they did," Tali continued, her voice barely audible, "they started searching the apartment. They were looking for something—something my parents had. I didn't know what it was, but they were desperate to find it."
Tali takes a moment to collect herself, her trembling hands gripping the edge of the table as if to anchor herself in the present. It's evident that recounting the traumatic events is taking a toll on her, but she presses on, determined to share the crucial details that might lead to answers. "After they leave our apartment," Tali continues, her voice steadier now, "I wait, terrified, for what feels like hours. When I finally dare to come out, I find my family...they are..." Her voice trails off, unable to articulate the unspeakable horror she has discovered. Spartan reaches out and places a reassuring hand on Tali's shoulder. "You don't have to relive that part," he says gently, understanding the pain of her memories. "We can imagine how difficult it must have been for you." Tali nods, her eyes filled with gratitude for the understanding and support we are offering. It's clear that she has found a glimmer of hope in our presence—a belief that justice might still be served for her family.
"We'll need to gather all the information you can provide," I say, shifting the focus to practical matters. "Can you describe the masked men? Any distinctive features, clothing, or anything that stands out?" Tali closes her eyes for a moment as if trying to recall every detail. "They are both tall and their clothing...it looks like they are wearing black tactical gear, like the kind you see in movies," she begins, her brow furrowing in concentration. "Their masks are plain black, too. I couldn't see their faces." Spartan activates his visor and begins to jot down Tali's description, his fingers deftly typing on a holographic keyboard. "Black tactical gear and masks," he repeats, confirming the details. "That doesn't give us much to work with, but it's a start." I lean forward, maintaining a comforting presence for Tali. "Did they say anything during the attack?" I ask, hoping for any additional clues.
Tali nods, her voice trembling as she recalls their words. "They are demanding to know where 'it' is," she says. "They keep saying, 'Where is it?' My parents...they don't know what they are talking about." The mention of "it" is a cryptic puzzle, a piece of the mystery that begs to be solved. Spartan's fingers move swiftly on his visor's keyboard as he notes the new information. "We'll need to figure out what 'it' refers to," he says, his voice filled with determination. "It could be the key to understanding their motives."
The girl hesitates for a moment before continuing, "There is something else...one of them mentions a name, 'Valentine.' I don't know if it's a person or something else, but it sticks with me." "Valentine," I repeat, the name echoing in my mind. It's a lead, albeit a vague one, and we can't afford to overlook any potential connections. "We'll look into it," I assure Tali. "Every piece of information is important." As our discussion continues, it becomes evident that we need to delve deeper into the investigation. We have a description of the masked men, a mysterious reference to "it," and the enigmatic name "Valentine." It's a puzzle waiting to be unraveled, and we are determined to piece it together. Spartan takes a moment to review the notes on his visor. "Our next step is to find any connections to this 'Valentine' and determine what the masked men were after," he says, his analytical mind already at work. Tali nods, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and trepidation. "Please," she implores, her voice quivering but resolute, "find out who did this to my family. They can't be allowed to get away with what they did." "I promise you they'll pay for their crimes," I assure her.