Sins of our Fathers
Chapter Three
Davian observed the target building.
A dilapidated three-storied structure situated in a narrow alleyway in Hell's Kitchen.
The edifice showcased a gloomy combination of faded paint and grime-covered brickwork. It featured shuttered windows partially covered with crumbling blocking walls. The entrance was a narrow, heavy-duty steel door that seemed out of place with the rest of the aesthetic.
Davian's eyes darted away from the building to the brief glowing on his phone. 'The Broker,' his employer, had outlined his task for the evening.
Cypher,
Your mission following is one of simplicity – acquire an antique artifact, termed the 'Eye of Agamotto.' The owner is a petty gangster operating in Hell's Kitchen. He's likely clueless about the item's real value. His crew of thugs (A mix of local troublemakers, ex-cons, and muscle-bound brutes) should not pose much of a challenge.
The artifact is portable, but the thug likely keeps it within arm's reach. A quiet approach is advised. Remind yourself - any harm to the artifact will be deducted from your final payment.
Time is of the essence. Complete your mission within the next 2 hours.
Best of luck.
Davian let out a sigh, adopting an impassive expression.
Two hours.
He could make that work.
Tucking his phone safely into his pocket, Davian reached for the helmet resting on the seat of his motorbike.
The helmet was uniquely shaped, looming large, with an augmented T-perspective visor protected by crimson lenses. Its polished, graphite exterior bore a haunting figure. Compact, sharp lines trailed across the helmet to simulate an elevated crest at the back.
Licorice-black and adorned with accents of crimson and steel, Davian's suit was a sight to behold. It mimicked the standard form of armored gear, only sleeker and much more practical. It was robust and durable, no doubt protecting the vital parts of his body. His chest plate proudly bore an emblem, subtly glowing a bluish hue, of an eagle spreading its wings.
Completing the ensemble was a Cameleoline cloak draped around him. The cloak was woven with mimic fibers that could change their color to match the environment, offering Davian a perfect camouflage.
With all his gear in place, Davian activated his helmet. The Heads-Up Display - HUD, came to life. Streams of data and various meters and gauges flickered in his eyesight while he performed a visual sweep of the building.
Thermal sensors scanned for heat signatures. His motion detector registered movement behind the seemingly obsolete windows, indicating the presence of guards.
Looking at his helmet, the stream of data flowing incessantly through his vision, Davian couldn't help but think of the benefactor who made all this possible.
His thoughts drifted back to an age-old saying, "Be careful of the hand that pulls you from the raging river." Those words mirrored his situation perfectly. A wise part of him knew he should have sent his 'benefactor' packing as soon as he appeared with his offer.
But desperation has a funny way of tweaking perspectives. When life steers you into a corner, you tend to grab onto anything that seems like a lifeline.
His benefactor went by many names, none of which Davian could verify as real. One such moniker echoed through the criminal underworld, a name paraded with a reputation of noteworthy nature.
Taskmaster.
That name had crossed Davian's path enough times for him to be familiar with its weight.
Taskmaster - a ruthless mercenary who offered Davian the one thing he needed more than anything else - the opportunity.
Opportunities weren't squandered; they were taken.
Davian accepted it.
To be honest, he didn't care who Taskmaster was or what he wanted.
It didn't matter to him.
All that mattered was that Davian had been given a chance to pay for his mother's treatments.
And he was going to do everything in his power to make the most of it.
Basking in the evening's shadow, Davian studied the rundown structure one final time before commencing his mission. Through his HUD, he was able to pick out the glowing thermal signatures of those inside the building, each one marked with a red crosshair for easy tracking.
Once he had a mental map of the building and its occupants, Davian decided it was time to make his entry.
Embracing the silent stealth that his Cameleoline cloak offered, he crept towards the back of the building. A cracked pane in the basement window showed a decent entry point. It was narrow, yet unguarded and easily overlooked - the perfect spot.
Inside, Davian's senses were on high alert. His cloak muted his movements while his thermal imaging mapped the activities of the thugs. As expected, they were relaxed, lounging around without a care in their respective domains.
Stepping around a corner, he almost bumped into a bulbous, ill-kept thug sauntering down the hallway. Quick on his feet, Davian moved in a sudden, swift motion, his gloved hand curling around the thug's throat.
A surprised gasp echoed in the narrow hall before it was abruptly cut off. The thug didn't have time to react - one moment, he was walking. The next, he was losing consciousness, dragged into a tight chokehold.
Davian swiftly moved to dump the thug's unconscious figure into a secluded corner. The thug's heavy body crumpled into the dank corner, well out of sight of his comrades.
One down, Davian thought, feeling a grim satisfaction spreading through him. Dozens more to go.
Moving further into the gauntlet, Davian noticed a makeshift armory on the ground floor. Rows of boxes marked with cryptic symbols were haphazardly stacked, each one possibly filled with weapons and ammunition of various types.
A dozen or so thugs milled about, the low rumble of their conversation and stupor warning Davian of their presence.
By their distinctive tattoos and the insignia scrawled on some of the weapon boxes, Davian identified them as part of the 'Rattlers,' a notorious gang known for their illicit activities throughout Hell's Kitchen.
As he lingered in the shadows, he tuned into their conversation.
"Dude, you think the buyer got cold feet?" one thug questioned, shaking his head.
"Nah, probably just caught in traffic," responded another, a smirk apparent in his tone.
"Cold feet? In this business? He'd be a dead man walking..." added a third voice, his tone menacingly calm.
"I say we give the punk another fifteen minutes - if he's not here by then, we take the stuff back to the hideout," the authoritative voice suggested, sounding the most reasonable of them all.
"Boss won't like that," a thug protested.
"Well, it's better than losing it to some unlucky punk," the ringleader responded, his voice firm, "And Boss ain't here, is he?"
Listening to their chatter, Davian filed away the information for later usage.
With a simple gesture, Davian brought up a holographic photograph on his HUD. It was a grainy but clear enough image of the lead thug carrying the Eye of Agamotto, a brutish figure he remembered as 'Razor.'
Shuffling the ID to the side of his vision, he resumed his hunt through the building. A sudden movement of a door opening caught his attention. A thug stepped outside of a side room, making a beeline towards the kitchen.
Seeing his opportunity, Davian sprang to action. He sped up his steps, building momentum before he closed the gap between them with a swift bull rush. The thug caught off guard, was knocked flat onto his chest. Before he had time to react, Davian slammed a foot onto his back, effectively pinning him down on the floor.
With a decisive motion, Davian produced one of his custom-made hand cannons. It bore a sleek, compact style, glossy pitch black with red lines tracing its frame, and was slightly larger than a conventional handgun – a design tailor-made for accuracy, range, and impact.
Pressing the cold barrel of the cannon to the thug's head, Davian decided that it was time for some dialogue. Employing his modified voice modulator, Davian let out a grim command, his voice doubling in its ominous, imposing tone.
"Where is Razor?" He demanded, his voice cold and authoritative.
"Who the hell are you?" The thug groaned, his voice strained from the pressure on his back.
"That's not an answer," Davian responded, the ice in his voice causing the thug to shiver.
"I don't know…" the thug whimpered.
Davian pressed his foot harder, causing the thug to cry out. "Try again," he demanded, leaving no room for negotiation.
The thug gasped, his chest constricting under Davian's weight. "Alright! Alright! He's upstairs, second room to the left!"
With the required information squeezed out of the thug, Davian offered him a small nod. "Thank you for your cooperation," he drawled before he purposefully dropped his knee onto the back of the thug's head. The swift blow resulted in unconsciousness.
With the thug eliminated, Davian turned his attention to the room on the upper floor. Activating his Cameleoline cloak, he managed to cross the first floor unseen.
A pair of distracted brutes engrossed in a football game on TV proved easy to bypass. His shoes made no noise over the dull roar of the television and the men's occasional exclaims on the game.
Reaching the staircase, he ascended as stealthily as a cat, his senses on high alert.
Suddenly, an unsettling noise pricked his ears. The unmistakable grind of the heavy-duty gate at the front gave way. The noise echoed throughout the building, followed by a hushed murmur of voices.
Looks like the buyer had finally arrived.
The unexpected sound sent a ripple of activity through the building. Preparations for the impending deal shot into overdrive.
Davian holed up at the top of the stairs became a quiet observer tucked away in the shadows. He listened as the undertones of conversations melded into one.
"Get your asses down there. The buyer's here!" an authoritative voice boomed.
"So much for being late," a gruff voice grumbled annoyingly.
"Fina-freaking-ly! Was starting to get unbearable hanging around here with you idiots."
"Watch your mouth, punk!"
The banter ceased soon, replaced by the collective sounds of the Rattlers heading towards the center stage of the event - the ground floor.
"Damn it," Davian cursed silently when Razor's unmistakable figure emerged from the room he had aimed to search. The very room that was now on the verge of being deserted.
This severely complicated his job.
Retrieving the Eye of Agamotto from Razor while his gang surrounded him felt like extracting a tooth from a lion's mouth.
It was time to improvise.
Casting his sights on a small balcony overlooking the ground floor - his vantage point for this mission - Davian activated the grapnel launcher mounted to his right forearm. With a faint whirring sound, a thin, high-density cable shot up towards the balcony and latched onto the railing with a quiet, automated snapping noise.
Ascending swiftly, he positioned himself in the narrow, shadowy space. On his hands and knees, he managed to blend into the brooding darkness perfectly while maintaining a clear view of the ground floor below.
That's when he spotted him. The head of the snake, the one controlling all the others - the Rattlers' boss. He emerged from the mass of henchmen, climbing the same staircase Davian had used minutes ago.
He was tall, towering, and undeniably intimidating with his expansive chest and bulging arms. His clothes were far from what one would associate with most underworld bosses. He donned a worn-out denim jacket and faded jeans. His bald head shone with an eerie intensity under the dim, fluorescent lights.
He made his way to the crowd, subtly brushing past Razor as if he were another faceless name in his army.
Standing starkly among the rowdy thugs and miscreants were the buyers. A quartet of four individuals, fashionably dressed and looking completely out of place among the crowd of Rattlers.
Two men and two women, all clad in dark, tailored suits, their faces void of any emotion. The outline of concealed pistols could be spotted under the men's jackets, their fingers nervously twitching at their sides.
The women, equally well-armed and on edge, glanced around, their faces screwed up in visible distaste. The smell, the filth, the company - they seemed utterly repulsed to share the room with the Rattlers, which raised questions about their presence.
One of the females attracted Davian's attention. Sleek black hair neatly pulled back in a high ponytail, striking ice blue eyes horrifically contrasting her cold demeanor. She had an air of authority around her, demanding respect.
With a confidence that didn't match her surroundings, she stepped forward and extended a hand to the Rattlers' boss, a faux smile on her face.
"Mr. Viper," she greeted, nodding his way.
"Ms...?" the Rattler's boss enquired, leaving the sentence hanging.
"Lynd," she supplied curtly, withdrawing her hand when he did not accept her offer, "My associates and I are here for the goods."
Chuckling cynically, the boss waved his hand around, "As you can see, Ms. Lynd, your goods are ready. And we expect our payment in full."
Things took a surprise turn when the woman, known as Ms. Lynd, disregarded the crates stacked around and voiced her client's new demand.
"I'm afraid our needs have changed, Mr. Viper," she announced, straightening her spine. "We are no longer interested in the armament. We believe your Razor has something far more valuable - an artifact that has attracted my employer's interest."
Viper blinked in surprise, his brows furrowing. "What're you blabbering about, lady?"
"The Eye of Agamotto," Ms. Lynd offhandedly mentioned, her voice reflecting no concern. "And before you become irked, consider yourself lucky to be paid in full for something as valuable as that artifact instead of your faulty weapons."
Viper's smile vanished, replaced by a snarl. His irritation was palpable.
"Seriously, lady! You can't just walk in here and change the rules at your whim!" he growled.
"I just did, Mr. Viper. I suggest you accept our terms before my employers lose their patience," Ms. Lynd barged on, her icy demeanor cutting off Vipers.
"I don't give a damn about your employers' patience! Do you think you can come in here, change the plan, and disrespect us? You're crossing the line!"
"Honestly, I couldn't care less about your opinion, Viper. Now, if you wish to finalize this deal, have Razor bring the artifact up front." She was a relentless wave pounding against his patience, wearing him thin.
The tension was palpable, the conversation steering the deal towards the uncanny precipice with each passing second.
"Fuck you," Viper shot back instantly. His signal to his crew turned the tension-filled room into a showcase of weaponry. "Deal's over, lady. Beat it before you get hurt."
The woman, undeterred by his threats, merely smiled – a smug upturn of her lips that screamed triumph. "As you wish, Mr. Viper."
She turned, making a show of leaving, but to Davian's high-tech audio receptors, he picked up a single word whispered so softly only he would be able to detect.
"Now."
And then, in the blink of an eye, chaos ensued.
Rapid gunfire resonated from outside, shattering the shutter's glass windows. Figures draped in tactical gear stormed their way in through the gaping holes, firing their precise shots at the panicking Rattlers. The room was transformed into a war zone.
These were no ordinary thugs; they were mercenaries - heavily armed, ruthlessly strategic, and meticulously coordinated. They wore tactical suits of gunmetal grey with flashes of neon green running down their gear. Each wore a helmet with a visor dark as night and no eyes visible beneath.
What drew Davian's attention was the ever-present and frightful emblem emblazoned on their shoulders.
Two serpentine dragons, their bodies intertwined against the gunmetal grey of the mercenaries' gear. Both dragons were depicted with open mouths, showing off a set of sharp fangs poised for a fatal strike.
Glaring red eyes glowed ominously on their fierce faces, the lenses catching and reflecting the light disconcertingly as the fan-like spiky crests sprawled out.
Hydra.
As realization dawned on him, there was only one phrase that perfectly encapsulated Davian's feelings.
"Fuck me."
Davian saw the Hydra mercenaries mow down several Rattler thugs before Viper caught the severity of the situation. Yelling for retreat, the targeted gang scrambled towards the back of the building, attempting to escape the onslaught.
Among the surviving Rattlers, Davian's eyes latched onto Razor. Sporting a bloodied lip and a manic look in his eyes, Razor's desperation spurred Davian into action.
Launching himself off the balcony, he managed to land on a scaffolding outside the building. From his new hiding spot, he could track the thugs fleeing the scene.
Up in the main room, the woman's sharp orders echoed through the chaos, "Basilisk to all Hydra strikers. Wipe them out. No survivors."
One of the mercenaries, helmet emblazoned with the Hydra insignia, had Razor in his crosshairs. Davian swiftly pulled his hand cannon up, lining the mercenary up in his own sights.
His focus narrowed exclusively on the Hydra op, shutting out the rest of the world. His finger squeezed the trigger, and the gun recoiled fiercely in his hands as two compact slugs burst out.
The bullets hit the mercenary with unerring precision. The first shot slammed into the side of his helmet, jerking his head sideways. The second one struck mere milliseconds later, plowing into the exposed neck and tearing through flesh and bone. The mercenary dropped to the floor, twitching violently as gushes of blood sputtered from his mangled neck before he stopped moving altogether.
The sound of Davian's hand cannon reverberated into the room, loud and unequivocal. As two Hydra Mercs jerked their heads towards the sound, they were greeted by a pair of bullets.
The projectile forced its way through one's eye socket, exploding out the back of his skull in a spray of gore and shattering fragments of his helmet. The accompanying moan of agony cut short as his body thumped lifelessly to the floor.
The second Merc met a similar fate, his head torn open by the bullet from just underneath his jaw, brains and blood splattering onto the nearby wall. His lifeless body collapsed, adding to the growing pile of dead.
"Contact! We have contact on our six!" One of the Mercs hollered mere moments before Davian's ongoing attack cut off his voice.
Taking advantage of their momentary confusion, Davian fired off two more shots, this time aimed at a third mercenary. The bullets forcefully sliced through the air, slamming into the Merc's open mouth, the force sending chips of teeth and globs of brain matter flying as a scarlet cascade erupted from the wreckage of the Merc's skull.
"Damn it! Take that bastard down!" The woman's urgent order echoed through the open space just as Davian launched himself off the scaffolding.
In mid-air, he tossed a small, round device onto the packed floor. A flashbang. A resounding boom followed, matched with an intense blinding light. The remaining mercs reacted instinctively, throwing their arms over their faces in an attempt to shield themselves from the blinding glare.
Taking advantage of the confusion, Davian landed on the other side, his legs absorbing the impact before he broke into a run. The temporary chaos gave him the perfect cover to pursue Razor further into the building.
Davian raced down the escape corridor that the Rattlers had cleverly hidden away in case of unexpected trouble. A tunnel leading further underground was lit dimly by spaced-out, stuttering bulbs along the ceiling.
He barely suppressed a chuckle. The tunnel, meant to serve as an escape route from the police, was never meant to be used for escaping a Hydra squad.
As private amusement filled his mind, Davian spotted two more Rattlers dashing down the tunnel. He maintained his chase, calculated steps echoing down the tunnel's narrow path.
His footfalls didn't go unnoticed. "Who the fuck is that guy?" One of the Rattlers yelled, looking back in panic.
"Who cares, fucking shoot him!" His companion yelled back.
On command, the first thug turned to fire his pistol at Davian.
Davian's hand cannon roared in response, and a bullet smashed into his opponent's gun receiver. The weapon shattered, the sudden backlash causing the thug to yelp in terror, dropping the remnants of the gun as he continued to run in panic.
Davian kept moving, following the long tunnel until it finally led him to the chaotic aftermath of a raging gunfight.
Outside, the Rattlers had taken cover behind their supposed getaway cars, trading gunfire with Hydra troops. With Hydra closing in, they were genuinely trapped.
Recognizing the need for a change in tactics, Davian fell back on an old adage - the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
With a sudden burst of speed, Davian emerged from the tunnel, both of his hand cannons drawn and ready. A flurry of gunfire deafened the surrounding noises, and two Hydra Mercs toppled over, killing the suppressive fire temporarily.
Riding the lull, Davian slid into cover beside a visibly incredulous Viper.
"Who the fuck are you!?" Viper bellowed, his attention focused on the Hydra Mercs as he squeezed off a few rounds from his weapon.
"Just a collector today," Davian replied coolly, adding the deadly retorts of his hand cannons to the gunfire.
"Yeah, and what are you here for?"
With a nod toward Razor, Davian replied, "The artifact. And in exchange, I get you out of this death trap. What do you say, Viper?"
"Fine," Viper begrudgingly agreed, looking over at Razor, who simply shrugged, clearly not caring about the artifact under the current circumstances.
Smart guy.
Exposing himself to the open battlefield, Davian called upon the unique gift that set him apart from the others. The world around him seemed to slow down, every second morphing into minutes. It was as though he had his own isolated pocket of time.
In this manipulated time zone, he could carefully analyze every detail of the battlefield. The positions of the enemy, the trajectories of the bullets, and the most advantageous angles for his next move.
All of it.
In one smooth move, Davian stepped out from his cover. A simple flick of his foot against a nearby car resulted in the vehicle lurching forward at an impossible speed. The vehicle on skids, propelled by Davian's strength, barreled into a Hydra Merc. The Merc received the high-velocity impact head-on, his body instantaneously becoming a gruesome smear against the cold, unforgiving asphalt.
Davian has never claimed to be a normal person.
In fact, he distinctly resided at the extreme end of the spectrum, a man whose existence defied the norms of the human world. His enhanced physical attributes could leave even the most skeptical people wide-eyed with astonishment and disbelief.
His enhanced perception of the world around him and his ability to methodically replicate others' physical movements just by observing them rendered Davian a force to be reckoned with.
The annals of knowledge were an open book for him - a vine-ripe fruit ready for plucking. One glance was all he needed to master any skill, to digest vast chunks of knowledge, to integrate learned behaviors seamlessly into his repertoire.
Everything was simple. Everything was within reach.
If it could be learned, he knew it.
And wasn't that just terrifying.
As the world around Davian moved in artificially manufactured slow motion, he lunged forward, his movements calculated and silent. Every step, every little twitch, was a lethal dance of death. With his hand cannon in a comfortable grip, he darted towards the cluster of Hydra Mercs, avoiding their sprayed bullets by mere inches.
His athletic physique darted through a volley of bullets, sidestepping one and then spinning away from the next. He was a wisp, a specter – dancing amidst the danger. Within this chaos, he was the eye of the storm, bringing brutal retribution to those in his path.
He relished the feeling of death far too much for his liking.
"Drop him!" A Hydra agent yelled out, training his weapon on our intruder, only for his attempt to be cut short.
Davian's hand cannon barked, and a small slug tore open a bloody vignette in the Merc's chest.
Another Merc dove at him, yelling a battle cry, "You're mine!" But his yell turned into a horrified scream. Davian rapidly closed the distance, hand cannon firing mid-motion and putting a hole in the agent's faceplate.
"Cut him down!" Another Merc rallied only to be met with Davian's swift and crushing retaliation. Davian sidestepped a shot, his hand cannon roaring once more, and a bullet blasted through the Merc's knee, obliterating his kneecap before a second shot found rest in the Merc's exposed throat.
Davian was on the fourth Merc in an instant. Resisting a swing from the Merc's rifle, he swatted it away. His hand lashed out, and a single blow buckled the Merc's knee. In moments, he had spun the incapacitated Hydra agent around, using him as a human shield against his comrades' assault.
His human shield's body jerked as bullets tore through his back and into his chest. Blood sprayed out, tainting the battlefield below them as the Merc's life rapidly drained away.
Davian didn't waste a moment. His hand cannons barked, hot metal roared through the air, and the rest of the Mercs were falling, mowed down by a final hailstorm of bullets.
The thrilling sound of his hand cannons rat-tat-tat came to an abrupt halt as the familiar click of an empty chamber rang through the sounds of chaos.
Aiming accurately, he tossed the lifeless hulk at a pair of approaching Mercs. The sight of their comrade's body hurling towards them caused them to hesitate, their training momentarily forgotten as raw shock took over.
Seizing the opportunity, Davian quickly closed the space. With a flick of his wrists, sleek blades jutted from both his forearms, glinting maliciously under the harsh strip light.
"Jesus Christ!" One gawked, forgetting to raise his gun in time.
"Catch him! Quick!" The other managed to shout, rallying their defenses just a moment too late.
With elegant brutality, Davian lunged. The blade on his left arm sliced across the throat of the first Merc, a crimson arch of blood fanning out as he tumbled to the ground. Before the second one could react, Davian had closed the distance. His right arm's blade sank into the Merc's chest, puncturing his heart with gruesome precision.
Transfixed briefly by the cold terror in his victims' eyes, Davian harshly extracted his bloody blade. The Merc's body fell to the floor, creating a growing pool of blood beneath.
But just as he was about to consider the ambush handled, Davian spotted the last Merc making a bid for his life.
Just as he shifted to give chase, the mercenary's escape was violently cut short as a hailstorm of bullets rained down on him, effectively dropping the Merc.
A voice jolted him out of his focus, "Nice work, kid."
Turning to regard the source of the voice, Davian found Viper looking at him with a certain respect in his eyes.
"Thanks," Davian replied, holstering his hand cannons and retracting his blades.
"A deal's a deal," the gang boss remarked, a smirk playing on his lips. He reached into his jacket and tossed something in Davian's direction – a small, pulsating, green artifact. The Eye of Agamotto. "You did us a solid. One good turn deserves another."
Davian snatched the artifact out of the air, eyeing Viper with gratitude.
"You know where to find me," Viper continued. "Find yourself in some trouble or just bored, look me up. I could use a man like you on my crew."
Davian simply smiled in reply, his hands slipping the artifact into one of his many pockets. "I'll keep that in mind."
With a swift two-fingered salute in farewell, Davian activated his cloak and disappeared.
He hoped this job didn't come back to bite him in the ass later.
I==I
"When were you going to tell me that Hydra was after the artifact?"
Davian's tone was edgy, wrestling to keep his annoyance in check. He hated to admit it, but Hydra on his tail was the last thing he needed.
The Broker, ever calm and collected, replied. "It wasn't certain at the time. I suspected. But I've never been one to make assumptions."
"Suspected?" Davian echoed, his tone incredulous. "You give me a job that maybe, just maybe, might involve one of the most dangerous organizations on the planet, and you didn't think to warn me?"
"Yes, I knew it wasn't going to be easy," the Broker admitted. "But as I said before, Hydra was just suspicion, not certainty. If I jumped at every uncertain whisper, we'd never get any work done."
Davian's eyes bristled with annoyance.
"And I've always delivered on my promises, haven't I?" The Broker pointedly remarked. "In the end, we got the artifact just fine. No one's worse for wear."
Davian conceded the point, but not without warning, "This isn't a game, Broker, and make no mistake, I am not one of your players."
The Broker's tone never wavered, "Duly noted. We all have roles to play, Davian, and sometimes, they're written in blood."
"Well, you can consider my role unfulfilled for the next couple of months," Davian retorted, steering his motorcycle onto the highway. "I need to lay low until Hydra gets distracted with some world-dominating plan."
"A bit melodramatic, don't you think?" The Broker smiled on the line, amused.
"Funny," Davian responded dryly. "I'm picking my jobs more carefully from now on."
"I thought it might come to that," The Broker admitted. "Don't tell me you're turning into a humanitarian or... dare I say it, a vigilante?"
Davian snorted, amused despite himself. "I'm no hero. But I have my rules. I've told you from the start, Broker. You know wants off the table."
"Yes, the infamous moral compass." The Broker's voice held a note of amusement. "It's funny, don't you think? A man of your profession still trying to keep his hands clean."
"I never said I was clean," Davian retorted. "Just...less dirty."
"And there's the naive distinction." The Broker mused, the signal beginning to crackle. "Keep in touch, Alrek. And watch your back."
The connection fizzled out, leaving behind only the low hum of his motorcycle's engine.
"I fucking hate him sometimes," Davian muttered to himself, shaking his head before revving up his bike, the speedometer needle climbing aggressively.
He thundered down the highway, weaving swiftly between speeding vehicles, his bike leaving a haunting silhouette against the night sky. It was a thrilling ride; the speed, the adrenaline, the upshot of a successful mission.
The designated drop-off point was an abandoned warehouse positioned on the outskirts of the city, hidden quietly behind a patch of dense shrubbery. Davian skidded his bike to a halt, the rugged concrete crunching under his tires.
The warehouse was immense, its steel walls worn down by time and weather, paint peeling off in large patches. The quiet, shadowed place was awash with mystique and secrecy, perfectly fitting for the type of business carried out there.
Its large, rusty gates were ever so slightly ajar, a clear indication that he was expected. Just as he was about to dismount, the gates suddenly swung open, revealing a lone figure stepping into the dim light.
Davian had arrived.
"I wondered when you'd show up." The voice echoed in the large, open space as Davian stepped into the grim warehouse.
"Your relic drew much more trouble than I accounted for," Davian stated, his gaze scanning the darkened corners of the warehouse.
"Ah, Hydra, always poking their noses in other people's business," a voice echoed from the darkness.
The statement caused Davian's eyes to narrow, his gaze swiftly scanning the dark shadows of the warehouse. His scanner picked up around twenty different heat signatures, and all fanned out in a perfect circle around him. It was well-coordinated and certainly professional.
He was surrounded.
"Shit," Davian muttered under his breath as a man stepped out of the darkness into the cone of light created by the overhead fixture.
Suddenly, a man ceremoniously appeared in the pale light. His gait was leisurely; calculated steps in polished leather shoes kissed the dusty ground, leading the way for his composed self.
He wore a crisp, tailored suit and a vibrant blue tie in startling contrast with his mundane attire. His hair was scalp-short, graying at the temples, and his warm smile softened the hard lines on his face - a face that seemed to have been meticulously chiseled out of stone. His eyes, however, sharp and discerning, watchful behind the standard-issue glasses, added an element of mystery to his uniform demeanor. There was an air of unmistakable authority around him.
Davian felt the prickle of suspicion beneath his scarlet helmet but kept his composure, his hand casually resting on his hand cannon.
"Who are you?" Davian's voice boomed in the warehouse.
"My name's Mr. C. I represent an organization that wishes to keep that artifact out of the wrong hands. So, if you would," Mr. C motioned toward the Eye of Agamotto in one of Davian's pockets.
"Really? And what organization might that be?" Davian eyed him suspiciously.
"That's classified," Mr. C replied, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Government then?" Davian presumed, his eyes narrowing beneath the helmet.
"Possibly," the man replied, non-committal to the end.
After a moment's hesitation, Davian flicked the artifact towards Mr. C, who caught it nimbly in mid-air.
"Thank you," said Mr. C, as a woman in a matching suit stepped out of the shadows, clutching a padded briefcase. He carefully slotted the artifact inside before flipping shut the suitcase and stepping back into the semi-darkness.
"You've made quite a name for yourself, haven't you, Cypher?" Mr. C's tone held a note of amusement. "A mercenary with morals."
Davian didn't respond, choosing to watch in silent suspicion instead.
"I've read up on you," Mr. C continued, "Your... exploits. You're most recent one was the assassination of a Chinese Triad. What was his name again? Ah, yes, Ming. Wanted for the murder of at least thirty people."
"That wasn't me," Davian denied, his tone firm and unchanged.
"Quite," Mr. C replied, matching his tone. "But it does fit your profile, doesn't it?"
"I wouldn't know," Davian reaffirmed.
"Indeed," Mr. C retorted, the hint of a smirk on his face visible even under the dim warehouse lights. "Keep up the good work. I'll be seeing you again, Cypher."
On these words, Mr. C melted back into the seemingly cavernous darkness, leaving behind an unsettling promise hanging in the stagnant air of the warehouse.
Davian watched as the shadows patiently hoarded its visitors back into its secrecy, only to be disturbed by the glaring gleam of sleek machinery. It was a hovercraft - the mere sight of which asserted the gravity of the man's connections.
One by one, Mr. C's armed unit collected themselves into the state-of-the-art hovercraft, unmarked and inaudible.
With a soft purr, the hovercraft lifted off the ground as if defying gravity itself, dispersing the dense dust accumulated on the floor. In the space of a few seconds, it was zipping across the horizon, gradually turning into a speck till it vanished into the obsidian canvas of the night sky.
Davian was left alone, standing in the eerie silence, the red glow from his helmet the only source of light.
"He certainly knows how to throw a party," Davian murmured to himself, the echo of his voice rebounding against the steel-clad walls of the now eerily silent warehouse.
He never liked the idea of being on someone's radar, most certainly not when the government backed them. But deep down, Davian knew this was the name of the game.
Dark allies, shady dealings, and sleeping with one eye open.
Juggling the thoughts in his head, he clambered back onto his motorbike. The uneasy silence of the warehouse was instantly shattered by the throaty rumble of the bike's engine.
One last glance around his surroundings, he shot off into the night.
"I'll be seeing you again, Cypher."
Somehow, Davian didn't doubt it.