Chapter 49:
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[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 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. 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.
[Drake POV]
[1 Week Later, Hotel, New York City]
I stride down the hallway of the upscale hotel on the hunt for Jace Cartmen, the self-proclaimed new Kingpin. Cartmen have been making waves in the criminal underworld. According to my gathered intel, he was once Wilson Fisk's low-level foot soldier within the Kingpin's syndicate. But now, he's boldly ventured out on his own. The corridor stretches before me, bathed in a faint golden glow from the ornate wall sconces that adorn the richly decorated walls. The hushed conversations of hotel guests and the distant hum of an elevator provide a deceptive calm to the scene. But I know better. With its opulent facade, this hotel serves as the perfect backdrop for Cartmen's illicit activities. As I move forward, my mind races with thoughts of the man I'm after.
I've heard whispers about Cartmen's syndicate. They may appear more like a bothersome gnat than a genuine threat to the established criminal order. No, my mission to eliminate Cartmen is driven by something far more personal beyond the cold calculations of power dynamics within the criminal underworld. It's a matter of pride, of maintaining the status quo and the unspoken rules that govern our world. The message from the Kingpin couldn't be clearer: never challenge him. Letting Cartmen go unpunished would undermine the foundation of Kingpin's rule, where respect, fear, and hierarchy are the currencies that matter. Petty as it may seem, this task is a testament to the ruthlessness of our world. A slight, an insult, a challenge – they can't be ignored. The Kingpin's empire thrives on fear and absolute authority, and any crack in that facade must be swiftly and mercilessly sealed. Insubordination cannot be tolerated, no matter how small the insurrection may appear.
My footsteps continue to muffle against the plush carpet. With cautious precision, I lean my head out just enough to gain a strategic vantage point, allowing my trained eyes to sweep the area and spot ten armed security guards. They stand like sentinels, strategically positioned, their attire and demeanor giving off an air of professionalism. These guards are undoubtedly Cartmen's hired muscle, sworn to protect him and his interests. Silently, I retract my head, keeping myself hidden behind the corner; a subtle sigh escapes my lips, betraying a sense of disappointment. I had hoped for a more challenging mission, one that would truly put my skills to the test. However, I quickly remind myself that regardless of the circumstances, I have a mission to complete.
With a quick motion, my gloved fingers find the control switch and slide it to the "on" position. As I activate the stealth-camo, I can't help but feel a sense of awe at the science and engineering behind this cutting-edge gadget. It's a piece of gear that blurs the line between espionage and science fiction. The stealth-camo hums to life, and I become acutely aware of a subtle change in my surroundings. The world around me seems to shift and ripple as if submerged in a translucent liquid pool. I watch in wonder as my body starts to fade into the background, becoming a mirage, a distortion in the corridor's dimly lit ambiance.
With my stealth-camo activated, I move with near-invisible finesse through the corridor, closing in on the unsuspecting guard. Each step is deliberate, my movements careful not to create any sound that might give away my presence. The translucent shroud of the stealth-camo conceals me, making me appear as nothing more than a faint distortion in the hallway. Approaching the guard, I can see his attention fixed on some distant point, his posture relaxed and unaware of the imminent threat. I reach out with my hand, my fingers extending precisely to find the right moment. When the time is right, I strike. My hand clamps down on his mouth to stifle any potential cry for help while my other arm wraps firmly around his neck. With a swift and expert motion, I hoist him off his feet, my muscles straining only slightly against the weight, and drag him off to an isolated area.
The security guard's survival instincts kick into overdrive. His eyes widen with fear, and his body tenses as he attempts to break free from my iron grip. He twists and writhes, desperation driving him to fight for his life. Beads of sweat form on his forehead as he realizes his dire situation. As he struggles, I maintain my grip, preventing any chance of escape. I apply the right amount of pressure to a vulnerable point on his neck. There's an audible crack, a grim sound that echoes through the corridor. The guard's resistance instantly falters, and his body goes limp. His eyes lose their spark of life, and he slumps in my arms. With the first obstacle eliminated, I pause to consider how to inject more excitement into this mission. The thrill of the chase and the adrenaline rush of a well-executed operation fuel my determination. I weigh my options as I stand there, shrouded in my stealth-camo. Perhaps I could intentionally draw attention to myself, turning this into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse. It would add an element of unpredictability, making the mission more challenging and satisfying.
The evident shortcomings of Jace Cartmen's security detail continue to unfold before me. Despite their carefully crafted appearance and well-coordinated positions, it becomes increasingly clear that their overall level of vigilance and readiness falls far short of the expectations one might have for guards protecting a figure as prominent as Cartmen. Prior to embarking on this mission had painted a picture of a more formidable security team. Reports suggested Cartmen had surrounded himself with a well-trained and disciplined force. Capable of thwarting even the most seasoned operatives. However, as I discreetly observe their behavior, it becomes apparent that Cartmen may have grown complacent in his newfound role as a self-proclaimed Kingpin of the criminal underworld. The security personnel's casual demeanor, inattentiveness, and lack of a heightened state of alertness are all signs that this group might not be the elite enforcers that their appearances would suggest.
Kneeling beside the lifeless security guard, I reach into his pocket and retrieve the radio. With a subtle smirk forming on my lips, I bring it to my mouth, ready to respond to the incoming call. On the other side of the line, the head security guard's voice crackles through the device, requesting a status report, likely unaware of the fate that has befallen his comrade. In a mocking tone, I answer the call, my voice laced with a hint of dark amusement as I deliver the news, "Well, it seems your associate had a bit of an accident." There's a pause on the other end, and I can almost sense the tension and confusion building as the head security guard processes my words. My taunting response is designed to sow doubt and fear among Cartmen's security team, to make them question their ability to protect their boss. It's all part of my calculated plan to exploit their weaknesses and keep them on edge as I pursue Jace Cartmen.
From where I'm standing, I can hear Jace Cartmen's furious voice berating his inept security team. His enraged words echo through the corridor, "What the hell do I pay you idiots for?! Get out there and kill the bastard!" With Cartmen distracted by his anger, I seize the opportunity to take bold action. Quickly and silently, I make my way to the room's main entrance. I kick open the door and toss in a flash grenade. The grenade emits a blinding burst of light and a deafening noise, disorienting anyone inside the room and causing chaos. I swiftly follow the grenade's entrance into the room, ready to capitalize on the confusion and incapacitate Cartmen and his security detail before they can react. In the blink of an eye, I react with lightning speed, drawing my pistol from its holster as I burst into the room. The moment the weapon barrel clears the holster, my finger instinctively finds the trigger, and the room is filled with the sharp, staccato rhythm of gunfire.
The bullets find their marks with deadly accuracy, hitting the members of Cartmen's security detail in vulnerable areas. One by one, they fall, their weapons clattering to the ground as they crumple to the floor. The room is transformed into a scene of chaos and violence as the echoes of gunfire reverberate through the air. Smoke and the unmistakable scent of gunpowder hung in the room, adding to the surreal atmosphere. Amidst the carnage, Jace Cartmen remains unscathed, his eyes wide with shock and terror as he witnesses the swift and ruthless elimination of his security detail. I keep my pistol trained on him, ready for any sudden movements or attempts to escape.
From my pocket, I pull out a small folded-up sheet of paper. Holding it up for him to see, I command him to call the number written on it. Cartmen, trembling with a mixture of fear and desperation, complies with a shaky nod of his head. His hands fumble for his phone, and he dials the number as instructed. As the call connects, a voice crackles to life on the other end of the line, a voice that carries a weight of authority and power. It's the unmistakable voice of the Kingpin, the very person Cartmen has sought to challenge. "Cartmen," the Kingpin's voice resonates through the phone, "I see you got my message. Due to our past professional relationship, I'm giving you one chance. Leave my city and never return." The weight of the ultimatum hangs in the air, and Cartmen's face reflects the gravity of the situation. The Kingpin's words are not to be taken lightly, and the fate of Cartmen and his aspirations now rests on his decision. The room is silent as we all await Cartmen's response, a pivotal moment that will determine the course of his future. It doesn't take long for Cartmen to break and give in to Kingpin's ultimatum. He tells the Kingpin he'll be out of the city by the afternoon. The room, once filled with danger and uncertainty, begins to regain a semblance of normalcy as Cartmen begins to make preparations for his hasty departure. As I make my way out of the hotel, my comlink buzzes to life of another incoming call. This time it's Zemo. He tells me it's time to commence operation Kingslayer.
[Steve Rogers POV]
[1 Week Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Office.] I sit at my desk, the weight of recent events heavy on my shoulders. The silence in the headquarters is almost deafening, a stark contrast to the chaos that has plagued the city in recent months. The mission reports spread out before me detail the recent activities of the DEMONS, one of the notorious criminal organizations that has been wreaking havoc. It's been over a week since the attack on city hall, and the city seems to be enjoying a fragile peace. But I can't shake off the feeling that something is off. It has been too easy. Prior, the DEMONS had been a load of trouble. Now, they are not as effective. I glance at the mission reports again, my eyes scanning the pages for any hidden clues or patterns. It's true that the crackdown from various law enforcement agencies, including the THUNDERBOLTS, NYPD, SHIELD, and even rival gangs, has put immense pressure on the DEMONS. But their sudden inactivity feels too convenient, too orchestrated. Are they regrouping? Planning something bigger and more sinister? Or is there a new player pulling the strings?
This is the calm before the storm. I feel it in my bones. I nod to myself, silently agreeing with the thought echoing in my mind. This eerie calmness, this deceptive tranquility, it's all too familiar. I've been through enough battles to recognize the subtle signs that precede a storm – the way the air feels charged with tension, the quiet before chaos descends upon us. My grip tightens on the edge of the desk, my mind racing with strategies and plans. It's times like these when experience and intuition become invaluable. I've faced formidable foes before, and I've learned never to underestimate the quiet moments. They are often the prelude to something far more dangerous. Rising from my chair, a resolute expression on my face, 'We can't afford to be complacent.' With a sense of purpose, I stride out of my office, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. The AVENGERS need to be prepared, mentally and physically, for the storm that I know is brewing on the horizon. I'll rally the team, bolster our defenses, and ensure that when the storm hits, we'll be ready to face it head-on. New York City might be calm now, but it won't last for long. And when the storm finally breaks, the AVENGERS will be there to stand against it.
[Training Area.] I slow my pace as I pass the training area, my eyes scanning the room instinctively. The sharp cracks of gunfire resonate through the air, indicating that someone is honing their skills at the firing range. As I step closer, I catch sight of Natasha Romanov shooting at the targets. I approach her quietly, not wanting to disrupt her concentration. She fires another round, her movements controlled and deliberate. Only when she finishes a perfect round does she glance in my direction, a small smile playing on her lips. "Steve," she greets me, her tone neutral but warm, "Something on your mind?" Her eyes, sharp and perceptive, assess my expression, picking up on the subtle hints of concern. I nod, my gaze meeting hers. "I can't shake off the feeling that this calm is temporary," I admit, my voice low, "The DEMONS have been unusually quiet, and it worries me. I think they might be planning something big. We need to be prepared." Natasha's expression grows serious, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I've been thinking the same," she replies, her hand tightening around the grip of her gun. "I'll dig into some contacts, see if I can uncover any intel. We won't let them catch us off guard."
[Spartan POV]
[Police Precinct, New York City]
[Rooftop.] The wind whistles past me as Wanda and I reach the rooftop of the police precinct. The cityscape sprawls before us, a vast expanse of lights and shadows. Misty Knight's urgent call still echoes in my ears, and I exchange a quick glance with Wanda. "What do you think this is about?" Wanda asks, her voice low, her scarlet eyes reflecting the city lights. "Don't know, but Misty wouldn't call us unless it was something serious," I say, waiting on Knight with my arms crossed over my chest. The roof door creaks open, and our attention shifts to the new arrivals. Misty Knight, the detective who had summoned us, steps out onto the rooftop. Following her, a man with a white walking cane steps into the light. Matt Murdock.
Knight skips past the introduction, her eyes heavy with worry, and gets straight to the point of why she called us here. With a determined tone, she delves into the intricate details of the dangerous power struggle unfolding in the criminal underworld. "One of the Kingpin's syndicate operations was attacked by an unknown enemy force," she explains, her voice steady. "In retaliation, Kingpin ordered a hit on his rival, Silvio, believing he was responsible for the attack. The man was found dead in his apartment a few hours ago. Made it look like a heart attack." "Drug? Poison?" Wanda presses, her sharp mind already working through the possibilities. Knight shakes her head, her expression grim. "No, Somehow the man's heart was physically forced to stop beating." A heavy silence hangs in the air as the weight of her words sinks in. The only suspect I know with that ability is Ghost, Kingpin's enforcer. Off to the side, I see Murdock clenching his fists in anger, his jaw tight with frustration. "Damn it," he murmurs under his breath.
"Is it reasonable to assume there's no hard evidence to tie the Kingpin's involvement in the murder?" Wanda's tone is sharp, her scarlet eyes reflecting frustration. She cuts right to the heart of the matter, questioning the integrity of the information. Knight, visibly weary from the complexities of the case, pinches the bridge of her nose in a gesture of stress. "Circumstantial evidence at best. Nothing concrete," she confesses, her words laden with a sense of defeat. The lack of substantial proof casts a shadow over their investigation, leaving them in a precarious position. The weight of the truth hangs in the air, emphasizing the daunting challenge.
Once the meeting concludes, Murdock makes his leave. Wanda and I are about to take off, but I want a moment to talk to Knight. "See, you're back to work. How's the new arm?" I voice, my eyes shifting to her cybernetic prosthetic, a marvel of modern technology. I can't help but be curious about how she's adjusting to the new addition. The woman peers down at her mechanical arm, her expression thoughtful. "Feels weird. Still getting used to it," she replies, her tone carrying discomfort and resilience. The cybernetic limb, a testament to human ingenuity, contrasts starkly against her natural one, a reminder of the challenges she faces in adapting to this new reality. I place a hand on her shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze. "Well, I'm glad you're still on the force. The city needs good cops like you," I say, my voice carrying genuine appreciation for her dedication. Despite the challenges she faces, Knight remains steadfast, a beacon of hope in a city often plagued by corruption. With a faint smile, I convey my confidence in her abilities.
[Drake POV]
[Fisk Tower, New York City]
Wilson Fisk sits at the head of a long mahogany table. Around him, the high-ranking members of his syndicate are gathered, each lieutenant representing a different facet of the organization's vast operations. Barkley, one of the more outspoken lieutenants, seizes the moment to voice his frustrations. His eyes harden as he directs his words at Fisk, the man whose approval could mean life or death in their ruthless world. "Fisk, no disrespect," Barkley begins, his voice a low growl, "but why are we sitting on our hands? The syndicate is hurting. We're being bled dry. We know who's hitting us; we should be out there making them pay." Fisk's expression remains stoic, his features carved from stone. He raises a single eyebrow, a silent invitation for Barkley to elaborate. The room falls into a heavy silence, every occupant keenly aware of the brewing storm in Barkley's words.
"Who?" Fisk inquires, his tone calm but laced with a dangerous undertone. "Silvermane, who else?!" Barkley spits out the allegation, his voice sharp with accusation. His words echo the frustration felt by the entire syndicate. The name 'Silvermane' reverberates through the room, igniting a spark of recognition and anger in the eyes of Fisk and his lieutenants alike. Fisk's mind works quickly, calculating the risks and opportunities presented by Barkley's accusation. The room crackles with tension as everyone awaits Fisk's response. Barkley presses on. "Ever since Rigoletto's 'retirement,' he's been gunning for the syndicate. For Christ's sake, it's an open invitation for war," he insists, his voice carrying the weight of undeniable truth. His tone echoes the collective concern of the syndicate members, their lives entangled in a dangerous web of power struggles and shifting alliances. Fisk absorbs Barkley's accusation with a thoughtful expression. Leaning forward, his hands clasped under his chin, he exudes an air of calculated calm. "I had the same suspicion and took care of the problem," he states, his words slicing through the tension in the room. The gravity of his revelation resonates with every person present. Fisk's ability to address threats swiftly and decisively is well-known among his lieutenants.
"Silvermane is no longer an active player in this game. In his final moments, he disclosed he was not the one who made the order," Fisk continues, his voice unwavering. The room buzzes with a mixture of relief and confusion. Relief, because the immediate threat seems to have been neutralized, but confusion lingers, like a lingering fog, as the identity of the puppeteer orchestrating this intricate scheme remains elusive. Barkley's eyes narrow as he processes Fisk's words, realizing the depth of the deception they all find themselves entangled in. The syndicate members exchange uneasy glances, their trust in one another shaken. Fisk's assurance carries a weighty implication - there's a more significant game at play, one where the stakes are immeasurable.
Barkley rises from his chair, his voice cracking with intensity. "Then it has to be the DEMONS! We have to strike now! These fucks are making us look weak. Making you look weak!" His words are a direct challenge to Fisk's authority. The room tenses further, the weight of Barkley's accusation reverberating through the space. Even though he voices what some might be thinking, his audacity in challenging Fisk, even indirectly, is a bold move. Internally, I observe the scene, recognizing the perilous ground Barkley has just stepped onto. 'Stupid fool should've stopped when he was ahead,' I think to myself, aware of the dangerous game he's playing. Challenging Fisk, especially in front of the entire syndicate, is akin to dancing on the edge of a razor blade—dangerously exhilarating but potentially fatal. A flicker of unbridled rage crosses Fisk's face, a momentary break in his normally composed demeanor. His eyes narrow, and the room seems to grow colder, the air thick with an unspoken threat. The intensity of his gaze bores into Barkley, a silent warning that speaks volumes. The other lieutenants exchange nervous glances, fully aware of the storm brewing between the two powerful figures in the room. In that charged moment, the balance of power teeters on a fragile precipice. The unspoken tension crackles between Barkley and Fisk, the room holding its breath, waiting to see how this daring challenge will unfold and who will emerge victorious in this high-stakes confrontation.
From out of nowhere, Ghost materializes behind Barkley, her presence as ethereal as her name implies. Without warning, she fades a translucent hand through the man's chest, gripping his heart with a deadly, supernatural force. Barkley's eyes widen in sheer terror as his life is abruptly extinguished, a gasp caught in his throat that will never escape. "It's Kingpin to you, asshole," Ghost states coldly, her voice cutting through the room like a chilling whisper of death. Barkley's body slumps forward, collapsing onto the floor, lifeless and devoid of the fiery determination that had fueled his challenge just moments before. The room falls into an eerie silence, the weight of the man's sudden demise hanging heavy in the air. The lieutenants exchange bewildered glances, their faces a tableau of shock and disbelief, unable to comprehend the supernatural display of power they've just witnessed. Their minds reel, struggling to reconcile the laws of their reality with the chilling spectacle that had unfolded before their eyes. In the criminal underworld, where power struggles were a daily occurrence, this unexpected demonstration of the supernatural had shattered their preconceived notions of what was possible.
Ghost, the loyal enforcer, moves with an eerie grace, her spectral form gliding silently to stand by Fisk's side. Her presence adds an unsettling aura to the room, a reminder of the unseen forces that Fisk commands and the enigmatic allies he possesses. The other lieutenants shift uncomfortably in their seats, their fear palpable as they avoid making direct eye contact with Ghost. Fisk, his gaze steely and unwavering, surveys the lieutenants around him. The shock in their eyes does not escape his notice, but he offers no reassurance or explanation. Instead, he cuts through the lingering tension with a curt question, his tone commanding obedience, "We have other business to discuss?" His words hang in the air, a reminder that in their world, there's no room for hesitation or weakness. The lieutenants, shaken by the recent events, quickly recompose themselves, nodding in acknowledgment of their leader's authority. Questions about the supernatural would have to wait. For now, they had to focus on the pressing matters at hand.
