July 14, 2009
The warehouse stank of oil and mildew, its metal beams groaning under the weight of years. The flickering fluorescent light overhead buzzed like an insect trapped in a glass, casting erratic shadows across the grime-covered concrete. Silver Sable crouched in the darkness, one knee pressed against the cool floor, listening.
No more command channels. No more armored convoys. No more Wild Pack. Just her.
Her tactical bodysuit was worn, stripped of the enhancements she once relied on. The silver plating, the reinforced joints, the heads-up display—gone. All she had was a sidearm, a knife, and instincts honed by years of war. Four days ago, she had power. Now, she had survival.
She barely blinked. "I don't have the luxury of being sure."
Outside, tires crunched against the pavement as a black SUV rolled to a stop. Four men stepped out, draped in thick coats despite the summer heat. They moved like professionals, their movements sharp and calculated. In their hands, military-grade firearms gleamed under the dull glow of the streetlights.
Vasily Gorshkov, their leader, stepped forward. He was a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a scar slicing across his cheek, his expression unreadable beneath the flickering light. In his grip, a metal briefcase, its locks reinforced.
Sable adjusted her position, peering through the warehouse's broken window. Inside that briefcase was Stark-tech—three stolen micro arc reactors. Worth a fortune on the black market. Worth more in the wrong hands.
Gorshkov lit a cigar, the embers flaring against the night. He smirked, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
"New York has become… soft." His voice carried in the still air, thick with a Russian accent. He chuckled, shaking his head. "This city is open for business."
He never saw the shadow above him move.
Sable struck like a phantom.
She dropped from the rafters in a blur, boots landing in a tight crouch. The first man barely had time to turn before she snapped an elbow into his throat, crushing his windpipe with a sickening crack. He collapsed without a sound.
The others reacted instantly—guns rising, safeties off.
Sable moved first. She dove low, rolling into cover as a barrage of bullets shredded the crates behind her. Splinters exploded into the air, but she didn't stop.
One of the mercenaries turned to run. He was smart. She was faster.
Her knife spun through the air, embedding in his thigh. He collapsed with a strangled cry, clutching the wound as blood seeped through his fingers.
The next gunman swung a shotgun toward her. Sable lunged forward, grabbing the barrel and twisting hard, forcing the blast upward. Buckshot tore through the ceiling as she yanked the weapon from his grip and slammed the stock into his ribs. He dropped, coughing blood.
Gorshkov was already moving, his cigar forgotten, his hand dipping into his coat.
He pulled a knife—a wicked, curved blade.
Sable met his charge head-on.
He slashed. She sidestepped. He lunged. She caught his wrist, twisting it with brutal efficiency. His grip faltered for half a second—long enough for her to disarm him. The knife clattered to the ground, and in a single fluid motion, she pressed his own weapon to his throat.
Silence. Heavy breathing. The smell of sweat and gunpowder.
Sable stared into Gorshkov's eyes—cold, calculating, the kind that had seen war and never blinked. He was a killer. A trafficker. A man who would put Stark's stolen technology into hands far worse than his own.
She exhaled.
Then she pistol-whipped him across the face.
His body hit the pavement with a dull thud.
"Not tonight," she muttered.
With a sharp motion, she grabbed the stolen briefcase and slung it over her shoulder. No paymaster. No extraction team. No celebration.
Just another night. Another job.
She began her trek down the drenched streets of New York now that her mission had been completed. The rain had eased to a steady drizzle, leaving the streets slick and gleaming beneath the glow of passing headlights. Silver Sable moved through the city like a shadow, her steps careful, deliberate. She kept to the alleys, cutting through the veins of the city where the light barely touched, where people didn't linger long enough to ask questions.
She had learned long ago that New York had two faces—one that shone in the daylight, a beacon of opportunity, and another that thrived in the spaces between, where power changed hands in whispers and blood. Tonight, she walked the latter, avoiding familiar routes, always watching, always listening.
Her reflection in a shop window caught her eye as she passed—pale skin, sharp features, platinum hair tucked beneath the hood of her jacket. The sight almost made her pause. Not long ago, she had moved through these streets with the weight of an army at her back, her Wild Pack an extension of her will. Now, she was alone. The sting of their defeat still lingered, but there was no room for regret. Regret didn't rebuild. Action did.
A newsstand blared sound from an old television set, catching her ear.
"—rising tensions between Latveria and France have left global leaders on edge. Sources suggest that Doctor Doom has withdrawn from diplomatic talks, signaling a potential escalation—"
Silver Sable turned her gaze upward to a nearby screen, where Mary Jane Watson's composed expression filled the display.
"As of now, the French government has accused Latveria of violating airspace regulations. There has been no official statement from Doom's representatives, but sources close to the situation believe that military action may not be far off. We will continue to follow this developing story—"
The screen cut back to the anchor desk, but Sable had already moved on. Latveria. France. War. None of it was surprising. The world's conflicts never truly ended, they simply shifted their battlefields. She had once fought to prevent chaos in her homeland, had spent years ensuring that power did not fall into the wrong hands. But power had a way of slipping through fingers, no matter how tightly one held on.
A group of men loitered outside a liquor store as she passed, their conversation a mixture of sharp laughter and hushed tones. One of them glanced her way, but the look she shot back was enough to turn his head. She was not prey. Not tonight. Not ever.
She tightened the strap of her bag, adjusting the weight of her concealed weapons, and continued forward. The city hummed around her—cars, distant sirens, the murmur of life that never fully faded.
The bar was close now.
She took a deep breath, pausing just outside the door. Her grip on the doorknob was firm, steady.
She was alone. That was the truth. But being alone did not mean being defeated.
With that final thought, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The bar was nearly empty, its neon lights flickering weakly against the rain-streaked windows. The smell of stale whiskey and cheap cigars lingered in the air, mingling with the distant rumble of traffic outside. Silver Sable sat in the back booth, her posture rigid, one hand wrapped around a glass of untouched bourbon.
Across from her, a man leaned into the dim light of the booth's hanging lamp. His features remained obscured by the low brim of his hat and the heavy collar of his trench coat. He stirred his drink absentmindedly, the ice clinking against the glass, as though the meeting was nothing more than a casual exchange.
"You handled the job well," he said, his voice even, measured. There was no accent, no distinguishing tone—deliberate neutrality. "Efficient. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just as I expected."
Sable remained silent. She wasn't in the mood for compliments.
A quiet ding from her phone signaled the completion of the transfer. She glanced at the screen. A sizable amount. More than she had asked for.
"That's more than our agreed price," she noted.
"Consider it an investment," the man replied. "A gesture of goodwill. I believe in rewarding those who perform well."
She slid the phone back into her pocket and reached for the bourbon. "I don't do charity work."
"Nor do I."
She took a sip, the liquor burning its way down. She could feel his gaze on her, studying her movements, assessing her. There was something meticulous about him, the way he controlled his presence, the way his words were chosen carefully, never offering more than necessary.
Finally, he leaned forward slightly, fingers laced together.
"I have another job for you."
Sable set her glass down. "I don't recall saying I was available."
"You don't strike me as someone who enjoys sitting idle. The world has changed, Miss Sablinova. You're alone now. But I can offer you direction. Resources. Work."
Sable's fingers drummed lightly against the table. He knew too much. That was expected—her name, her skills, her recent misfortunes weren't exactly state secrets. But there was something about his wording, the subtle weight behind his voice, that made her uneasy.
"What's the job?" she asked.
The man smiled. Or at least, she thought he did—a flicker of movement beneath the shadow of his hat.
"There's a man who needs to disappear. Quietly. Permanently."
Sable exhaled slowly, reaching into her coat for another sip of her bourbon. "I don't take contracts blindly."
"Of course not."
He slid a plain envelope across the table. It was thick, weighted—cash, documents, maybe even a photograph inside.
"Review it at your leisure," he said, standing from his seat. "I'll expect an answer soon."
She stared at the envelope, her instincts already sharpening. This wasn't just another contract. This was something bigger.
The man adjusted his coat, his shadow stretching across the booth. Even as he turned away, his presence remained heavy.
Before he walked off, he spoke one last time.
"You're not the only one rebuilding, Miss Sablinova."
The words lingered as he stepped into the night, disappearing into the storm.
Sable sat there for a moment, the envelope resting beneath her fingertips. The bar felt colder now, the bourbon less warm.
She hadn't asked for another job.
But the way he spoke, the way he positioned his words like chess pieces, told her that she had already been playing long before she sat at this table.
And that realization unsettled her more than anything.
The night was clear, the city skyline glowing with a mix of neon and moonlight. Atop the museum's skylight, Felicia Hardy—better known as Black Cat—crouched like a panther, her silhouette barely visible against the darkness. Below her, a maze of security beams crisscrossed the floor, while glass cases displayed priceless artifacts. But she wasn't here for just any treasure. She had her sights on something special.
She reached into her belt and retrieved a small laser cutter, pressing it against the glass. The blade hummed, tracing a perfect circle. With a flick of her wrist, she caught the cutout before it could fall. A smirk played on her lips as she peered down at the empty museum floor. The guards were making their rounds, slow and predictable. Perfect.
Felicia dropped silently, twisting midair before landing gracefully atop a support beam. A red laser scanned just below her boots. She let out a breath, shifting her weight. The cameras were still active—until they weren't. With a flick of her wrist, she activated a small EMP device, sending a pulse through the room. The red lights on the cameras flickered and died.
She moved quickly, slipping through the corridors like a shadow. A guard walked past, whistling an off-key tune. As he turned his head, she ducked behind a pillar, pressing herself into the darkness. Another guard stretched and yawned, standing between her and the vault door. Timing her steps with his sluggish movements, she slid past behind him, never making a sound.
The vault stood before her now, its reinforced glass showcasing the necklace she had come for. The gemstones sparkled beneath the museum's dim lighting, an arrogant display of wealth. Felicia reached for a small explosive charge, placing it carefully against the glass. The timer ticked down.
Four. Footsteps echoed from the hallway.
Three. A set of keys jingled.
Two. She rolled her shoulders, bracing herself.
One.
The glass exploded outward with a muffled boom, and she was already moving. She snatched the necklace midair, rolling over a display table before flipping off it with effortless grace. The alarms blared, and the museum came to life with flashing red lights.
The chase began immediately. Guards burst through the doors, weapons drawn. Felicia sprinted toward the exit, her heartbeat steady, her grin unshaken. She vaulted over a railing, sliding down the grand staircase's polished banister before landing smoothly at the bottom. A guard lunged at her—she sidestepped, grabbing a bust from a nearby pedestal and flinging it into his arms.
A service door led her to the rooftop. She kicked it open, emerging into the cool night air. The moment she stepped forward, a spotlight flooded over her, blindingly bright.
"HALT! HANDS IN THE AIR!"
Felicia stopped at the edge of the rooftop. A helicopter hovered above, wind whipping through her white hair. Behind her, guards emerged, blocking her escape route.
She sighed, cracking her neck. "You boys really don't know how this works, huh?"
Reaching into her belt, she plucked a small smoke bomb and dropped it at her feet. A thick cloud of mist engulfed the rooftop. The guards coughed, weapons raised, but when the smoke cleared—she was gone.
From a nearby building, she swung effortlessly through the air, her grappling hook retracting as she landed on another rooftop. The necklace dangled from her fingers, catching the moonlight.
Felicia chuckled, slipping it into her pocket.
"Purrfect," she murmured before vanishing into the night.
A neon sign flickered overhead, buzzing weakly as it cast its sickly glow over the rain-slicked streets. Felicia Hardy moved like a shadow, slipping between alleyways and rooftops, her every step calculated, her breath steady. The city hummed around her—subway cars screeched below, car horns blared, and laughter spilled out from late-night diners. But she wasn't part of that world right now. Right now, she was nothing but a whisper in the dark.
She landed on a fire escape, the metal groaning under her weight. She stilled, pressing herself against the brick wall, listening.
Click. A streetlamp flickered.
Whirr. A security camera rotated, scanning the alley.
Zap! A static charge erupted from a small device in her glove, frying the camera's feed.
She smirked and moved on.
Felicia stuck to the shadows, darting through a maze of rooftop vents and satellite dishes. But tonight, she wasn't just avoiding rent-a-cop security. Tonight, she had bigger concerns. The X-Men.
She adjusted her earpiece, flipping through police scanners and encrypted radio chatter.
"…mutant activity in the lower boroughs…"
"…Cyclops and Storm sighted near Hell's Kitchen…"
She exhaled. The last thing she needed was to cross paths with one of them. She could handle Spider-Man—hell, she had danced around him for years—but the X-Men? No way. That was a level of superhuman trouble she couldn't charm or backflip her way out of.
Felicia kept moving, her heartbeat in sync with the rhythm of the city.
Dodging between clotheslines, her silhouette flashing in and out of sight. Ducking beneath a construction beam, slipping past a worker who barely notices the breeze of her movement. Her next feat had her slide across a metal railing, her claws sparking against the steel, before she leaps and disappears into the night.
She dropped into an alley, landing silently between two overflowing dumpsters. Her nose wrinkled. "Ugh. Gross."
Felicia peered around the corner. The street ahead was lit up with flashing news screens—broadcasting footage of Latverian forces posturing on the French border. In the middle of the segment, Mary Jane Watson's face appeared.
Felicia rolled her eyes. "Of course she gets the exclusive."
The screen cut to another story—one about Spider-Man, shown mid-swing beside Iceman.
Felicia tensed. So it was true. Spider-Man had been hanging around the X-Men lately. That meant he might be patrolling with them. That meant she had to be even more careful.
A squad car rolled by, its siren off, its spotlight sweeping lazily across the street. Felicia ducked back, pressing herself against the wall. The light passed. She exhaled and moved.
The black market was close now. She could hear the murmur of voices, the low thrum of illegal business being conducted beneath the city's surface.
Felicia adjusted her hood, pulling it low over her platinum hair. She stepped forward, her fingers brushing against the necklace in her pocket.
She smiled.
Time to get paid.
Felicia stepped through the unmarked door and into a world that most New Yorkers never even knew existed. The black market wasn't a place—it was a shifting, breathing thing, always moving, always hiding. A neon-lit labyrinth of narrow corridors and makeshift stalls, filled with criminals, smugglers, and collectors of the rare, the stolen, and the forbidden.
Stolen jewelry glinted under dim lights, high-tech weapons were displayed behind reinforced glass, untraceable passports were exchanged in a blur of hands and hushed voices.
Felicia moved through it all like she owned the place. She didn't need to push or shove—people got out of her way. She was Black Cat, after all, and everyone here knew better than to cross her.
At the far end of the market, past a man selling vibranium scraps and a woman hawking Chitauri tech, she found her benefactor.
A bald man in a silk suit sat behind a reinforced counter, sipping expensive whiskey like he had all the time in the world. His name? No one really knew. He went by Baxter, or Mr. B, depending on how much he liked you.
Felicia slid the stolen necklace across the counter.
Baxter barely glanced at it. Instead, he looked at her, swirling his drink. "Impressive work, Ms. Hardy. As usual."
She gave him a lazy smirk. "You know me. Always deliver."
He picked up the necklace, inspecting the jewels under a flickering lamp. "Genuine. Untraceable. No heat." He smiled, gold tooth glinting. "You just made my night."
A soft ding came from Felicia's wrist-mounted device. The payment had gone through. A hefty sum, sitting pretty in her offshore account.
Felicia stretched, letting out a satisfied sigh. "Pleasure doing business, B. Now, unless you've got a gift basket for me, I'll—"
Baxter leaned in. "Actually, I do have a little something extra for you."
Felicia arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
He tapped his glass, eyes gleaming. "Word is, something big's going down tonight. A certain mercenary—very European—is about to make some moves."
Felicia's smirk faltered. "Someone I know?"
Baxter shrugged. "Could be. Couldn't be. But whatever it is, it's happening here. Thought you might wanna stick around."
Felicia leaned on the counter, fingers drumming. "And why would I care?"
Baxter grinned. "Because, my dear, opportunity knocks in the strangest places."
Felicia glanced around, suddenly aware of how quiet the market had gotten in certain corners. A few shady figures were gathering near one of the back exits, whispering. Something was happening.
She rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck. She turned, hands in her pockets, slipping back into the moving crowd. "Alright, B. You've got my attention."
The air smelled of salt, rust, and diesel—a familiar combination that clung to the cold night breeze. Silver Sable moved like a phantom along the rooftop of an abandoned warehouse, her silver-white hair tucked beneath her hood, her eyes scanning the docks below.
She crouched at the edge, overlooking the container yard. Dozens of shipping crates were stacked like steel fortresses, illuminated only by sparse floodlights and the occasional flicker of a distant patrol car's headlights.
Her target? A shipment hidden among them, belonging to an arms dealer with deep pockets and even deeper connections to the criminal underworld.
Sable activated her earpiece, her voice barely above a whisper. "Reviewing the situation."
She tapped a small wrist device, pulling up a digital overlay of the docks. She had spent the last few days gathering intelligence, and now it was time to put it to use.
The client was unnamed. Whoever had arranged this shipment was powerful enough to keep their name off every official document. That alone was a red flag. She could, however, recognize Dimitri Morozov, a former Russian intelligence officer turned weapons trafficker. He had a reputation for selling to the highest bidder—militants, mercenaries, rogue states. If it could kill, Morozov had a price for it. If Morozov was personally overseeing the transfer, it wasn't standard black-market firearms. It had to be something more dangerous, something worth stealing.
The guards were a mix of ex-military and hired muscle, well-armed but undisciplined. That was both good and bad—it meant they were dangerous in a firefight, but exploitable with the right distraction.
Sable exhaled, running a mental calculation. She would need to be fast, precise. This was her first big job since the fallout with the X-Men—since she had lost her Wild Pack. There was no backup. No reinforcements. It was just her.
And she intended to remind the world why Silver Sable was a name to be feared.
She checked her weapons—dual silenced pistols, grappling line, a handful of flashbangs. More than enough to get the job done.
Her gray eyes narrowed as she spotted movement below. Morozov himself had just arrived, stepping out of a black SUV, flanked by bodyguards. He was here to personally oversee the shipment.
That meant whatever was in those crates was very valuable.
Sable smirked. "Good. That makes it worth stealing."
She took one last look at the scene below, then stood, gripping the railing.
Time to move.
Author's Note: Hello everyone, so here's my first ever spinoff for Earth-12127 based on the unproduced Silver Sable and Black Cat team up movie Silver & Black. This story is the result of knowing there won't be a movie like this any time soon and I want to be sure to use this as an opportunity to make sure I get a feel for doing spinoffs with my setting properly. There are some extra cervices in Earth-12127 people have shown interest in me exploring so this is one way to make sure I can do so even if it won't predominantly feature Spider-Man and/or Psylocke.
So this story basically takes place alongside Volume 3 where Spider-Man and the X-Men are off in Europe deescalating the nuclear conflict between France and Latveria. This story will also feature some characters who have not shown up in the main story just yet but will be sure to give screentime to make sure they are given the attention they deserve. I hope you all enjoy this exploration of the setting and look forward to seeing this vision of this side of the world.