Chapter 18:
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[1 week later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Living-area.] I bite down on a forkful of delicious pancakes made by Clint, savoring the fluffy texture and the hint of maple syrup that dances on my taste buds. The man truly knows how to put together a meal that transcends mere sustenance; it's a culinary experience that leaves me feeling not just satisfied but utterly content. As I chew, a pang of envy washes over me, tinged with admiration for Clint's culinary prowess. While he effortlessly whips up gastronomic delights, the only thing I can confidently cook is my signature dish, chicken paprikash—a recipe handed down from my grandmother. However, my culinary repertoire has been expanding steadily, thanks to the wealth of online cooking tutorials and recipes I've been diligently studying. My eyes drift across the room and settle on Clint, engaged in animated conversation with Natasha, their camaraderie evident in every gesture and shared smile. Their dynamic reminds me of the bond I once shared with my own brother back in simpler, happier times. Natasha suddenly reaches into her pocket and produces a small box, passing it to Clint with a knowing look. Curiosity piqued, I watch as Clint opens it, revealing an advanced-looking hearing aid nestled inside. It's a revelation that catches me off guard—I had no idea Clint was deaf in one ear, an injury sustained during a perilous mission years ago. His ability to conceal such a significant impairment speaks volumes about his resilience and determination.
Now, as I reflect on our interactions, I find myself noticing subtle cues that had previously escaped my attention. Clint's unwavering focus on a person's lips during conversations and his preference for seating arrangements that ensure his good ear faces the speaker—these behaviors suddenly make perfect sense. It's a testament to Clint's adaptability and resourcefulness, traits that have undoubtedly served him well throughout his storied career as an Avenger. With my breakfast finished and my appreciation for Clint's cooking duly expressed, I offer my heartfelt thanks.
[Room.] I stand by the shelf, staring at my collection of DVDs and VHS tapes of movies and classic TV shows, each one a relic of nostalgia and cherished memories. For a moment, I am transported back to my childhood, when Papa would gather the family together for our weekly movie night ritual. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a brief respite from the harsh realities of the world outside our very windows, where the echoes of war lingered like shadows in the night. Lost in the waves of reminiscence, I am jolted back to the present by Natasha's voice, a gentle interruption in the midst of my reverie. "Are you okay? You were all zoned out there," she asks, concern evident in her tone as she stands in the doorway, a silent sentinel of support. With a slight stumble in my voice, I reassure her, "Yes, just lost in memories of a bygone era." Natasha's gaze flickers to the assortment of DVDs, a silent invitation to delve into the depths of my past. "Are you a movie buff?" she inquires, her curiosity piqued by the array of cinematic treasures before us. I offer a tentative nod, conceding, "A casual enthusiast. It was my father who truly held a passion for film. Every weekend was a journey into cinematic wonder, courtesy of his extensive collection."
Her keen observation cuts through my guarded facade, prompting a confession I had long kept buried beneath layers of secrecy. "You've never spoken much about your family or your life before joining the team," Natasha remarks, her words a gentle prod, urging me to peel back the layers of my past. I lower my gaze, a pang of remorse gnawing at my conscience. "I suppose I never found the right moment, or the right person, to share such personal details," I admit, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through the armor of stoicism I so often wear. Natasha's response is understanding, her demeanor a blend of empathy and acceptance. "No need to apologize. We all have our secrets," she reassures me, her words a balm to the wounds of self-doubt that linger within. With a thoughtful glint in her eye, she suggests a movie recommendation, a subtle gesture of camaraderie extended across the chasm of our differences. "Altered Carbon. I think you and Spartan would enjoy it," she offers, her words laden with unspoken implications that dance between us like fleeting shadows in the dusk. Caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation, I stumble over my words in a clumsy attempt to deflect her probing gaze. But Natasha, ever the astute observer, sees through my feeble facade with unnerving precision. "Going by that reaction, I'd say I hit the mark," she remarks, her smirk a silent testament to her unrivaled perceptiveness.
I find myself drawn into a confession I had long harbored in the depths of my heart, laying bare the tangled web of emotions that swirl within. "Was it really that obvious?" I whisper, my voice a fragile thread of uncertainty that hangs in the air between us. Natasha's response is both candid and comforting, a gentle reminder that vulnerability is not a sign of weakness but rather a testament to the strength that lies within. "Only to me. Well, and maybe Karai. Some men are oblivious to our interest in them," she muses, her words a gentle nudge toward self-discovery and acceptance. As she takes her leave, I am left to ponder the weight of her words, grappling with the implications they hold for the uncertain future that lies ahead. In the quiet solitude of my room, I find solace in the echoes of her wisdom, a guiding light amidst the darkness that threatens to engulf me. As I contemplate the possibility of seizing the fleeting moments of opportunity that life presents, I am reminded of the simple truth that sometimes, the greatest risks yield the most rewarding outcomes.
[Hours later]
[Living-area.] Tonight, Spartan and I find we have AVENGERS HQ all to ourselves; the rest of the team is scattered across the city, attending to various missions and personal matters. With the spacious confines of the headquarters echoing with an unusual quietude, we seize the opportunity to indulge in a leisurely movie night, a rare luxury amidst the chaos of our superhero lives. I take it upon myself to select a film, opting for the one Natasha had suggested—a choice I hope will resonate with both of us. As the opening credits roll and the story unfolds on the screen before us, I find myself gradually succumbing to the weariness that lingers from the day's exertions. The events of the day, though seemingly mundane, have taken their toll, leaving me feeling more fatigued than I had initially realized. Somewhere between the action-packed sequences and the lulling cadence of the film's soundtrack, I begin to drift into the realm of sleep, my eyelids growing heavy with the weight of exhaustion. It's a struggle to remain awake, my consciousness slipping further into the embrace of slumber with each passing moment. But just as the tendrils of sleep threaten to ensnare me completely, I am roused from my impending stupor by a subtle shift in movement beside me. With a start, I blink away the fog of drowsiness, my senses sharpening as awareness floods back into my weary mind. And in that fleeting moment of clarity, I am acutely aware of the warmth and solidity of the figure beside me—the very person upon whom I had unknowingly rested my head.
A rush of embarrassment floods through me as I realize the intimate proximity in which we find ourselves, my cheeks flushing crimson with embarrassment at the unexpected closeness. In a panic, I recoil from the inadvertent contact, my apologies tumbling forth in a hasty rush of words. "Sorry!" I stammer, my voice laced with mortification. But Spartan, ever the embodiment of calm and understanding, reassures me with a gentle smile and a reassuring touch. "No, it's fine. No harm done," he assures me, his words a balm to my frazzled nerves. Yet, beneath his placid exterior, I sense a flicker of amusement—a silent acknowledgment of the awkward yet endearing moment we find ourselves sharing. As I struggle to compose myself and regain my composure, I am caught off guard by a stray thought that drifts into my mind—a fleeting glimpse into the recesses of Spartan's thoughts, unguarded and unfiltered. "The display was cute, though," his voice echoes in the chambers of my mind, the words a playful tease that only serves to deepen the hue of my embarrassment.
A tumult of emotions swirls within me, a whirlwind of uncertainty and longing that threatens to overwhelm my senses. My heart flutters erratically within my chest, each beat a frantic drumming of desire and apprehension. And amidst the chaos of my racing thoughts, one singular truth emerges with crystalline clarity—I am hopelessly, irreversibly infatuated with the man who sits before me, his presence a beacon of warmth and comfort in the midst of my turmoil. Yet, as I grapple with the tempest of emotions that churn within, I find myself paralyzed by fear, unable to voice the words that linger unspoken upon my lips. The weight of my unspoken confession hangs heavy in the air between us, a palpable tension that binds us in an unspoken dance of longing and uncertainty. And so, as the credits roll and the night stretches on, I am left to wrestle with the daunting prospect of revealing my true feelings to the man who occupies every corner of my heart and mind.
[Spartan POV]
Wanda's presence beside me is a comforting weight, her proximity a tangible reassurance in the quiet solitude of the moment. As she draws nearer, her words hang in the air like a delicate echo, a poignant reminder of the shared burdens we carry in the wake of our tumultuous pasts. "This is nice. It has been a long time since I had a moment of peace," she murmurs softly, her voice a gentle melody that resonates with a quiet longing. I bow my head in silent acknowledgment, a silent gesture of solidarity with the pain and trauma she has endured. "I'm sorry you had to go through that. We both witnessed the horrors of war," I offer, my words laden with empathy and understanding. Wanda's response is a subtle movement—a delicate sweep of her hand as she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture fraught with unspoken significance. "A shared life experience," she muses, her tone tinged with a hint of melancholy. I nod in silent agreement, the weight of our shared history casting a shadow over the fragile bond that binds us together. And yet, amidst the darkness, there is a glimmer of hope—a flicker of resilience that refuses to be extinguished. Wanda's decision to rest her head on my chest is a silent invitation—a gesture of trust and vulnerability that leaves me feeling simultaneously honored and humbled. "No, not at all," I assure her, my voice a whispered promise of solidarity and support. With a sigh of contentment, she settles into my embrace, her presence a soothing balm against the jagged edges of the memories that linger in the recesses of her mind. The warmth of her body melds with mine; Wanda begins to speak, her words a hesitant confession of the struggles she has faced in her journey toward healing and self-discovery. "The nightmares don't haunt me as much anymore, but there are a few nights they slip through," she confides, her voice tinged with a note of vulnerability. "But since joining the AVENGERS, I have found a sense of peace and acceptance. Even purpose."
Her words stir something within me—a profound sense of admiration for the strength and resilience she possesses, even in the face of adversity. "I feel there's a 'but' coming on," I remark, my brow furrowing with concern. Wanda's response is a soft, musical giggle—a fleeting moment of levity that belies the weight of her words. And then, with a solemn expression, she reveals the depths of her inner turmoil. "But I still do not know who I am as a person," she confesses her voice a fragile whisper that hangs in the air like a fragile thread. "I spent so long focusing solely on survival; I barely know how to function outside of that." In that moment, the enormity of her struggle becomes painfully clear—a journey of self-discovery fraught with uncertainty and doubt. Unconsciously, I find myself wrapping my arms around Wanda, offering her the silent comfort of my embrace. She accepts it willingly, her body melting into mine with a sense of trust and vulnerability that touches me to the core. "Thank you, Gino," she murmurs softly, her gratitude a silent echo in the quiet expanse of the room. And then, with a suddenness that catches me off guard, Wanda leans up and presses her lips against mine—a fleeting yet tender kiss but not at all unwelcoming.
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
To my astonishment, Spartan doesn't push away, his response a silent affirmation of the unspoken connection that crackles between us like electricity in the air. Natasha's words reverberate within the recesses of my mind, a constant reminder of the fleeting nature of opportunity and the importance of seizing the moment when it presents itself. "Go for it if you are interested in pursuing something. You got nothing to lose," her voice echoes like a guiding beacon, urging me to cast aside my fears and embrace the possibility of something more. The kiss begins with a tentative softness, a delicate exploration of uncharted territory that soon ignites into a blazing inferno of passion and desire. Spartan's lips against mine send shockwaves of sensation coursing through my veins, setting every nerve alight with an intensity that leaves me trembling with anticipation. As our embrace deepens, the boundaries between us blur, merging into a seamless fusion of two souls intertwined in the throes of newfound intimacy. Finally, we pull apart, gasping for air as we emerge from the depths of our shared reverie. There's a palpable tension hanging in the air, thick with the weight of unspoken words and unspoken desires. Yet, to my relief, the silence that follows is not one of awkwardness but rather a moment of shared understanding and mutual respect.
"Okay, that was intense," Spartan remarks, his voice a low murmur that breaks the stillness of the room. "Yeah," I reply, my cheeks still flushed with the remnants of our shared passion. "What brought that on?" he inquires, his curiosity tinged with a hint of amusement. With a small sigh, I gather my courage and straighten myself into a sitting position, my heart pounding in my chest as I prepare to lay bare the depths of my emotions. "I like you, Spartan. More than a friend," I confess, the words tumbling forth in a rush of vulnerability. "During the time we spent together, I developed strong feelings for you. And if you don't feel the same way, fine. I only hope it will not ruin our friendship." Spartan's response is a gentle squeeze of my hand, a silent reassurance that fills me with warmth and hope. I lean into his touch, the comfort of his presence a balm to the doubts and insecurities that plague my mind. "Likewise," he murmurs, his voice a whispered promise of mutual affection and understanding. "I'm willing to take a crack at this and see where it goes." My heart soars with joy at his words, a rush of elation flooding through me like a tidal wave of emotion. Without another word, I throw caution to the wind and throw my arms around Spartan, pulling him close as our lips meet once more in a fervent embrace. But just as the moment reaches its zenith, the shrill sound of the EPYON's alert cuts through the air, shattering the fragile bubble of intimacy that surrounds us and jolting us back to the reality of our duties as AVENGERS.
[Doc's Diner, New York City]
Arriving on the scene, the police are present, lights flashing through the darkness like eerie beacons in the night. The glow of yellow tape crisscrosses the area, delineating the boundaries of the crime scene with an air of solemn finality. As we step out of the vehicle and onto the pavement, I can feel the weight of the moment pressing down upon me like a suffocating blanket, the specter of death looming ominously in the shadows. Standing at the entrance, bathed in the harsh glow of the police floodlights, is a lone NYPD officer. Living in a war-torn country, death has become an ever-present companion—a constant specter that lurks in the shadows, waiting patiently for its moment to strike. Yet, despite my familiarity with its cold embrace, I have never grown accustomed to its presence, nor have I ever truly learned to accept it as an inevitability of life. Instead, I have merely learned to live with it. Approaching the entrance to the crime scene, an odd sensation washes over me—a tingling in the air that sets my nerves on edge. I exchange a glance with Spartan, a silent acknowledgment of the tension that hangs between us like a heavy fog. Together, we move forward, our footsteps echoing against the pavement in a rhythmic cadence that seems to reverberate with the weight of the moment. The police officer turns towards us, his gaze steely and unwavering as he assesses our presence. "Area is closed off. Active crime scene," he informs us, his voice a solemn declaration of the gravity of the situation. Without hesitation, Spartan flashes his SHIELD badge, a silent gesture of authority and trust that speaks volumes without the need for words. In response, the police officer nods curtly, his expression softening slightly as he steps aside to allow us passage.
[Inside.] Minus the police presence, the place seems nice and welcoming, its facade of normalcy belying the horrors that took place. The soft glow of ambient lighting casts a warm hue over the surroundings, the gentle hum of conversation mingling with the clinking of glasses. Yet, beneath the veneer of civility, a sense of unease hangs heavy in the air—a palpable tension that tugs at the edges of my consciousness like a persistent whisper. Nearby, a man in a sleek black-tie suit catches Spartan's eye with a casual wave. A SHIELD agent, I surmise. "Hardison. What's the story?" Spartan queries, his tone direct and to the point, his eyes scanning the diner. In response, Hardison launches into a brief overview of the situation—a homicide, he explains, the details of which are as grisly as they are straightforward. "Vic got stabbed to death by a psycho with a knife. Real slasher shit," he recounts, his words punctuated by a grim sense of finality. "Perpetrator was caught red-handed by an off-duty cop," he continues, gesturing towards the figure being interviewed by another officer nearby. "He was forced to shoot when the perp tried to lunge at him." As Spartan and Hardison engage in conversation, their voices blending into the ambient noise of the room, my attention is drawn elsewhere—a pair of gurneys being wheeled out of the building, their occupants shrouded in the anonymity of body bags. As they pass by, a sudden movement catches me off guard—the hand of one of the deceased reaching out and grabs me.
Instantly, disjointed visions assault my mind's eye, each one more unsettling than the last. In the mental tableau that unfolds before me, I find myself seated across from a shadowy figure, its form obscured by darkness as it speaks in a language unknown to my ears. My body is frozen in place, paralyzed by an overwhelming sense of dread that grips me with icy fingers. Panic begins to set in as the scene shifts, the perspective switching to a first-person view as I find myself wielding a knife with a cold detachment that chills me to the bone. A voice, not my own, screams frantically in the recesses of my mind, its cries drowned out by the relentless pounding of my heartbeat. The body moves of its own accord, driven by forces beyond my comprehension—a puppet dancing to the macabre tune of unseen hands. With a sickening lurch, I am thrust into the midst of the violence, my hands stained with the blood of another as I commit unspeakable acts of brutality. The man before me, his face contorted in a mask of agony and fear, becomes the unwitting victim of my frenzied assault, his life snuffed out in a haze of crimson and despair. Yet, even as the darkness threatens to consume me whole, I can sense a faint glimmer of resistance—a flicker of consciousness struggling to break free from the shackles of its captor. With a surge of willpower born of desperation, I wrench myself from the grip of the nightmare, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I emerge from the depths of my own personal hell.
In a final flash, the vision cuts to an end, leaving me disoriented and breathless, the remnants of the nightmare still lingering like a dark shadow in the recesses of my mind. As I blink back to reality, I find myself back in the diner, the familiar surroundings offering a semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos that threatens to engulf me. Spartan's hand rests reassuringly on my shoulder, his voice filled with genuine concern as he asks if I'm alright, his eyes searching mine for any sign of distress. With a slow nod of my head, I brush off the episode, though my thoughts continue to swirl with unanswered questions and unspoken fears. I turn my attention back to the lifeless body before me; a sense of unease settles over me like a heavy blanket, the memory of the visions still fresh in my mind. 'What in the world was that? Did I imagine all of it?' I wonder my thoughts a jumbled mess of confusion and disbelief. Yet, even as I grapple with the aftermath of the ordeal, life around me carries on as if nothing had happened—the paramedic continuing to push the gurney with practiced efficiency, the din of conversation in the diner rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Spartan approaches one of the witnesses—a waitress, likely in her 40s, her face etched with lines of worry. "Hello, Ma'am. I'm Gino. This is my partner Maximoff," he introduces himself, his tone calm and reassuring. "Can we ask you a few questions?" he inquires, his voice a gentle prompt for cooperation. The waitress, whose name I glean from her nametag as Sheyenne, nods in affirmation, her expression a mix of curiosity and trepidation. "Sure," she replies, her voice trembling slightly with nerves. Spartan begins the interrogation, his questions probing and methodical as he seeks to unravel the mystery that lies at the heart of the crime. "Been working here long?" he starts, his tone gentle yet firm. Sheyenne nods, her eyes distant as she recalls the years of service she has dedicated to the diner. "Yeah. It'll be 11 years next month… I've dealt with a lot during my time here. Down-and-outers, junkies, and even a few robberies. Murder is the first. Poor Johny. He was such a nice guy," she reminisces, her voice tinged with sorrow at the memory of the victim. Spartan presses further, his questions becoming more pointed as he delves deeper into the details of the crime. "Did you know the victim well?" he asks, his voice taking on a note of urgency. Sheyenne rubs her hands together nervously, her gaze dropping to the floor. "Johny was a regular customer. Ordered the same thing every time. Left a nice tip," she replies, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What about the suspect? Seen her around before? Was there any indication that the two knew each other?" I interject, my curiosity piqued by the mention of the perpetrator. Sheyenne shakes her head, her shoulders slumping with defeat. "No. I never saw her before tonight," she confesses, her voice tinged with regret. I turn my attention to the table in the far corner, where the murderer sat. Inspecting the scene, I note the uneaten plate of food sitting untouched. A chill wind blows through the air, sending a shiver down my spine. Meanwhile, Spartan forges ahead, his steps leading him into the back room where the murder occurred. I quickly follow closely at his side.
[Back-room.] White chalk outlines and dark red stains mark the murder scene. "Hardison wasn't exaggerating. Real slasher show," Spartan comments grimly, his gaze sweeping everything over. I can see the gears turning in his mind, his sharp eyes taking in every detail as he begins to piece together the puzzle of what transpired. With a few deft movements, Spartan activates his HUD, the digital interface springing to life before his eyes in a dazzling display of technological prowess. The HUD, a marvel of modern engineering, collects and assembles data from the surrounding environment, rendering it into a 3D holographic image that is projected onto the user's visor. This technique, known as ECHO, allows agents and operators to gather intelligence and 'see' critical evidence that might otherwise go unnoticed. As the HUD plays out its reconstruction of the crime scene, two digital silhouettes materialize before us, each marked by distinct colors—blue and red. I feel a knot tighten in my stomach at the sight, a sense of déjà vu washing over me as I watch the events unfold exactly as they did in the vision that plagued my mind moments earlier. "Weird," Spartan mutters to himself, his brow furrowing with confusion.
"What is?" I inquire, my voice tinged with unease. Spartan's response is measured, his words chosen with care as he contemplates the implications of what we have just witnessed. "A murder by a complete stranger doesn't happen very often, especially by someone that doesn't have any criminal history or psychological issues," he explains, his tone thoughtful. "Yet, nothing about this seems premeditated." We stand in silence, pondering the enigma that lies before us; my attention is drawn to a movement in the periphery of my vision—a large black raven perched on a nearby tree, its piercing gaze fixed upon us. 'Ominous,' I think to myself, a sense of foreboding settling over me like a heavy cloak. With little else to be gleaned from the scene, we make our leave, the weight of unanswered questions hanging heavy in the air.
[1 day later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
[Room.] I didn't get much sleep last night; the murder case kept plaguing me, its tendrils of uncertainty weaving through my thoughts like a persistent whisper in the darkness. Something about it felt inexact, a nagging sense of unease that lingered in the corners of my mind like a shadowy specter. But try as I might, I couldn't explain it—the pieces of the puzzle refusing to fit together in any coherent fashion, leaving me grappling with the elusive truth that lay just beyond my grasp. Suddenly, there's a sharp rap on my door, jolting me from my troubled reverie. "Come in," I call out to the person on the other side. Spartan enters his presence, a welcome distraction from the swirling chaos of my thoughts. "Hey," he greets me with a nod. My eyes flicker to the tablet in his hand, curiosity piqued by the device's presence. "What's that?" I inquire, my voice betraying a note of curiosity. Without a word, Spartan holds out the tablet in front of him, its screen illuminated with a series of data points and statistics. "I did a check on the perpetrator of last night's case. Becky Summers, 27," he explains, his voice grave. "The girl was clean. No prior criminal record. No mental health issues. Drug test shows she wasn't under the influence of any narcotics or alcohol. The girl was a model, law-abiding citizen. Never even got a traffic ticket."
"So you're not buying this as a random act of extreme violence?" I state, my brow furrowing. Spartan's response is measured, his gaze distant as he considers the implications of the information before us. "No, it was random. But coming from a person like Becky. It makes no sense," he admits, his voice tinged with frustration. With a troubled expression, I recount the details of the vision that had haunted me the previous night, each word laden with the weight of uncertainty and fear. Spartan listens in silence, his arms crossed over his chest as he absorbs every detail with rapt attention. By the time I finish, a troubled frown mars his features, his expression betraying the gravity of the situation at hand. Suddenly, Spartan's phone rings, the shrill sound cutting through the tension like a knife. With a quick glance at the caller ID, he answers the call, his voice tense with anticipation. It's an incoming call from Hardison. He informs us that he needs to see us ASAP. Without hesitation, Spartan and I exchange a knowing look before making our way to meet him.
[SHIELD HQ, New York City]
The elevator door's side opens, and Spartan and I are met by Hardison, his expression a mix of urgency and anticipation as he gestures for us to follow him. With a silent nod, we fall into step behind him, our footsteps echoing through the empty corridors of the facility as we make our way to the medical bay. The atmosphere is tense, thick with the weight of unspoken questions and unanswered mysteries. Finally, we arrive at our destination—a sterile exam room bathed in harsh fluorescent light, its clinical surroundings offering little comfort. Before Spartan can even utter a word, Hardison thrusts a file into our hands, his expression grim as he begins to relay the details of his findings. "Found some interesting info on our vic. Namely, Johny Tyrell isn't Johny Tyrell," he starts, his words punctuated by a sense of urgency. "The real Johnny Tyrell died years ago. Our guy assumed his identity." "If this man is not Johny Tyrell, who is he?" I inquire. Hardison shakes his head, his expression grave. "That's the million-dollar question. We don't know. There is no record of this guy anywhere. Nothing on dental, fingerprints, or facial recognition. Like the guy never existed. A ghost," he explains, his words hanging in the air like an ominous portent of things to come.
As we digest this unsettling revelation, Hardison places a hand over a digital panel, causing the tinted window to turn transparent, revealing the body of the victim lying on a medical table before us. My eyes are drawn to the odd-shaped patterns that adorn the skin, their intricate designs etched into the flesh with a precision that speaks of something far beyond human understanding. Noticing it as well, Spartan questions Hardison about the markings. Hardison nods, his expression troubled. "No idea. At first, I thought they were tattoos, but I've never seen ones that burned into the skin like this," he admits, his brow furrowing in confusion. "The design and style are nothing I'm familiar with," Spartan remarks, his eyes narrowing as he studies the mysterious symbols, "Hell, nothing is popping up on the net either." I gaze upon the strange markings; a sense of foreboding washes over me, their ancient and otherworldly appearance hinting at forces far beyond our comprehension. Before we can delve any deeper into the mystery, EPYON tags a 9-11 call. Another body has been found. A homicide with striking similarities to the case we're currently working on.
[New York City]
[Brooklyn.] [Alleyway.] Via Spartan's motorcycle, we pull up to the crime scene. This time, the murder took place in an alleyway. We stride forward and cross the yellow tape line. A single body lay sprawled on the cement ground. Spartan kneels down and pulls off the white-covered sheet. The man's body was riddled with deep lacerations. A limb or two were hanging by a piece of meat. My partner scans the surroundings with the HUD, but it glitches out. "Getting a lot of electrical interference. Can't get an ECHO going," Spartan says, frowning.
A homeless man sits at the mouth of the alleyway. I slowly stroll to him. The street was not kind to the man, but it did harden him. Man is a survivor who wrestles with the onset of age and arthritis. "What do you want?!" he snaps. The cold night put him in a sour mood. "Know anything about what took place in the alleyway?" I question him. "You a copper?" he shoots back, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "A concerned party," I state. The homeless man's defense drops slightly, "As long you're not a cop. Never trust the blues in this city. What do you want to know?" "Sounds like you live in the alley," I voice to him. "Sure do. For the last few months, that alley has been my home. But I spent my days doing odd jobs for the local street merchants," he tells me. "Did you see the murder?" I quiz. The man's shoulder tense up; eye alert, he gazes around the alley, searching. "Sir?" I call his attention. "I didn't see anything," he snaps, voice shaking uneasily with fear. It's clear the homeless man saw something, but he was unwilling to talk. I consider what actions to take next. The direct approach seems more favorable even though it's not something I don't particularly like doing; the situation calls for it. I dive into the man's mind to see the event through his eyes.
I see the vic dashing through the alley. He came to a full halt when he reached a dead end. The man turned to face whatever was pursuing him. Vigilant, the vic eyes the surroundings. The shadows within the alley expanded themselves, and a figure appeared. With no other options available, the mage takes up a combat-stance. They were clearly speaking to each other by their lip movement, but the homeless man was too far away to hear. The shadow threw up a hand. The vic started to levitate off the ground, convulsing violently. He screamed out in torturous pain and terror as if he was being ripped to shreds by an unseen force. A touch on my shoulder snaps me out. I flinch back but quickly calm down, seeing it's Spartan. The homeless man was already making his leave, groaning that he wanted to be left alone while gathering his things. "You, okay?" Spartan asks. Peering over at the masked crusader, I tell him what I did and what the homeless man witnessed.