Chapter 50:
[Karai POV]
[Police Precinct, New York City]
[Interrogation Room.] The harsh, fluorescent lights buzz overhead, creating a stark contrast with the cold, gray walls of the interrogation room. The metallic scent of the table in front of me mingles with the lingering aroma of stale coffee. Detective Rodriguez enters, a folder in hand, his stern expression giving away little. He drops the thick file onto the table and takes a seat across from me. "Karai, right?" he says, glancing at the file. I maintain my silence, offering no confirmation or denial. Rodriguez sighs in annoyance. "It'd be in your best interest to talk, you know. Cooperation can make things smoother," he states, eyeing me closely. I remain still, my poker face intact. Cooperation is a concept I rarely entertain, especially within the confines of a police interrogation. Rodriguez leans back, frustration evident, "We've got evidence – tapes, witnesses. It's all there. You can make this easy or hard on yourself. Your call." I tilt my head slightly, a nonchalant gesture that masks the calculations in my mind, "I don't know what you're talking about," I reply calmly, my voice steady. He leans forward, hands on the table, "We've got footage of you and that girl. Gunfight and all. It's a compelling case. Start explaining." I meet his gaze with a measured stare. "Self-defense. Those mercenaries are professionals, not your run-of-the-mill thugs. You should be looking into who hired them." Rodriguez's frustration flares, "Defending yourselves? You're not exactly the victim type, Karai." A faint smirk touches my lips. "Appearances can be deceiving, Detective." He sighs, tapping the file. "We could charge you with a lot right now." I keep my mouth shut, my eyes revealing nothing. The room settles into a tense silence, the unspoken understanding that this is far from over.
Frustrated by not getting anywhere with me, Detective Rodriguez ushers me to the holding cell. Crossing by the squad room, I see the girl seated at one of the desks as another cop tries to get her to spill what happened at the motel. The squad room is a hive of activity, phones ringing, officers huddled in conversation, and the low hum of fluorescent lights above. The girl, her expression a mix of defiance and apprehension, meets my eyes briefly as I pass. The cop questioning her is persistent, leaning in, his tone insistent. The words are muffled as I continue to the holding cell, but I catch phrases like "cooperate" and "think of yourself."
[Holding Cell.] The heavy door clangs shut behind me. The air is stale, and the metallic tang of the bars lingers. I find a bench to sit on, leaning against the cold wall. The frustration in Detective Rodriguez's eyes echoes in my mind, but for now, silence remains my strategy. I close my eyes, preparing for the next move in this intricate dance of survival. From where I sit, I can see inside the infirmary down the hallway. Lying on the table is one of the mercs being patched up. The infirmary is a sterile room with bright overhead lights that make every detail visible. The mercenary, previously a formidable threat, lies subdued on the examination table. Medical personnel moves around efficiently, tending to wounds and injuries acquired during the confrontation. I observe the scene. The mercenary's presence in the infirmary hints at a broader network orchestrating their actions. As I await my next move in the holding cell, the sight of the injured mercenary serves as a silent testament to the dangerous web of intrigue that surrounds us. After a short wait, the merc is placed in the cell next to mine. The heavy clank of the cell door echoes through the corridor as the mercenary is escorted into the neighboring enclosure. He glances at me with hostility. I meet his gaze, my expression impassive, revealing nothing of the thoughts swirling beneath the surface. The mercenary, still nursing his injuries, takes a seat on the bench. The air in the confined space feels charged with tension, a silent acknowledgment that we share a volatile history from just hours ago. The walls of the cell become witnesses to the unspoken dynamics between the two of us.
"You wiped out my team," he barks with hate in his voice. I roll my eyes, "Self-defense. You assholes tried to kill me and the girl." The exchange is laced with animosity. His accusation is met with my dismissive response, a nonchalant defiance that echoes my earlier sentiment to Detective Rodriguez. The mercenary glares at me. The dim light in the cell casts shadows on the bruises and cuts that mar his face. The air thickens with unspoken resentment. As the waiting game continues, the verbal volley within the cell becomes a microcosm of the larger conflict unfolding outside. The cold walls bear witness to the clash of motives and the thin line between survival and retribution. In the silence that follows, the gravity of our entwined fates hangs heavily in the air.
A few minutes in, Rodriguez enters the holding cell. He peers at the two of us, then lets out a long, exaggerated sigh, "Out of the two of you, one of you looks like a victim." Detective Rodriguez's weary demeanor suggests the weight of the situation. He stands at the threshold of our cells, surveying the tableau of conflicting narratives. The stark contrast between the mercenary's battered appearance and my seemingly composed state. Like before, I keep silent, offering no immediate response. The holding cell remains a quiet arena where the unspoken intricacies of the game take center stage. My silence becomes a deliberate choice, a shield against the uncertainties that collaboration might bring. Rodriguez seems resigned to the reality that extracting information won't come easily. The mercenary in the neighboring cell watches with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. I already know the mercenary isn't going to say anything either; it won't do him any good to betray his employer. Plus, his professionalism wouldn't allow it. In this situation, where every word can be a double-edged sword, our mutual silence becomes a form of defense. A tactic in a dangerous game, bound by unwritten rules. Rodriguez exits the holding cell, leaving the heavy door to swing shut behind him.
They start to line us up through the processing procedure. Photo, fingerprint, the whole works. I step forward as the camera captures my image, the harsh flash briefly illuminating the cold surroundings. The procedure continues with the press of fingers against the scanner, documenting the unique patterns that distinguish me from the rest. The mercenary, still nursing his injuries, undergoes the same routine in the adjacent line. The clinking sounds of handcuffs being adjusted punctuate the air. The officers move with practiced efficiency; their movements are almost robotic as they exercise each individual through the bureaucratic machinery.
[Squad Room.] Rodriguez tries another attempt to extract info from me, starting off with a scare tactic, "You're looking at multiple counts of homicide. That's life in prison if convicted. I'm giving you one last chance to tell me what happened. Maybe I can help you." I bark out a humorless laugh, "Sorry. Life experience has taught me never to trust a cop. They'll lie just as much as a criminal." The squad room hums with activity, the distant chatter of officers and the persistent ring of phones forming the backdrop to our verbal sparring. Rodriguez's attempt to pierce through my defenses reverberates in the crowded space, but my response is laced with a bitter understanding forged through years of navigating the murky waters of justice enforced by the corrupt police. Rodriguez, unfazed by my defiance, studies me intently. The squad room becomes a battleground of wills, each word exchanged a move in the ongoing chess match.
After a protracted moment of silence, I deliberate on whether to provide Detective Rodriguez with a morsel of information. The weight of the unspoken tension hangs heavy in the room, and the decision to share a piece of the puzzle is a carefully calculated move. Finally breaking the silence, I utter, "Samus, L. ID#: B316. SHIELD." Each word is measured, conveying a sense of reluctant cooperation. The name, identification number, and SHIELD offer a glimpse into a world beyond the immediate circumstances – a world of covert operations. However, I don't lay all my cards on the table. The deliberate choice to mention my partner, who will "fill in the blanks," adds an element of controlled revelation. It serves as a subtle reminder that information is a currency, and I retain a degree of agency in determining how much is disclosed.
I gaze at the merc who's sitting inside the holding cell. The harsh lighting in the squad room casts stark shadows across his face, emphasizing the bruises and cuts that bear witness to the recent clash. With a measured intensity, I break the silence that permeates the room. "That merc isn't working alone," I declare, my gaze unwavering, a revelation that goes beyond the immediate circumstances. The mercenary, once perceived as a solitary threat, is now a piece in a larger puzzle, a pawn in a game with stakes far higher than anticipated. I address Rodriguez, there's a deliberate choice in my phrasing, "A storm is coming." The metaphor paints a vivid picture of impending chaos, a convergence of forces that transcend the singular actions of the mercenary. It's a warning, cryptic yet laden with urgency, suggesting that the turbulence extends beyond the visible horizon.
[Holding Cell.] Back in the holding cell, my annoyance is starting to flare up due to the merc's stare. The confines of the cell, though seemingly static, carry an undercurrent of tension. The mercenary, a silent presence in the shared space, meets my gaze with an intensity of needles. I shift my position, the cold metal bench offering little comfort. As the merc's stare persists, my irritation transforms into a quiet resolve. The holding cell, for now, is a battleground of silent exchanges, each participant measuring the other, waiting for the inevitable moment when the balance tips in favor of one.
"My people are going to come, and when they do, we're going to wipe out this whole station," the merc threatens. I peer at the man with a bored expression. His words, laden with bravado, echo through the confined space of the holding cell. The threat, though ominous, is met with my unyielding gaze. I tilt my head slightly, a subtle display of indifference, as if his declaration of impending violence fails to elicit even a flicker of concern. I've heard similar threats countless times before. The merc, perhaps expecting a different reaction, meets my stultified expression with a momentary pause. The unspoken challenge lingers in the air, a prelude to the larger confrontation.
Via HUD, I hack into the police precinct security feed. The digital interface of my heads-up display becomes a gateway into the surveillance infrastructure of the precinct. Lines of code dance before my eyes as I navigate through the layers of security protocols. The precinct's surveillance grid unfolds in real-time, displaying various camera feeds, access points, and critical locations within the facility. The information becomes a digital tapestry that I can manipulate at will, my expertise in hacking providing a silent conduit into the heart of the law enforcement fortress. As I sift through the security footage, my movements are precise and purposeful. The glow of the HUD casts an ethereal light on my focused expression, a manifestation of the digital realm merging seamlessly with the tangible world.
In the lobby of the police precinct, my watchful eyes catch the entrance of two figures who immediately arouse suspicion. Their demeanor and purposeful stride suggest an intent that doesn't align with the routine comings and goings of the precinct's visitors. Executing a rapid scan through the available digital data, I discern a notable incongruence: the identities presented by the two individuals fail to align with the badge numbers visibly displayed on their persons. The discrepancy between the claimed identities and the recorded badge numbers adds a layer of complexity to the unfolding situation. In the digital realm, where information is meticulously cataloged and cross-referenced, this inconsistency is a glaring anomaly. The mismatch triggers a cascade of questions, fueling a sense of suspicion and alert. I turn my eyes on the merc sitting in the holding cell across from me, his threat echoing in my mind. The threat, once delivered with bravado, now lingers as a challenge. Switching my attention to the feed, I watch the officers engage in a verbal sparring match, delving into discussions about jurisdiction and protocols. The surveillance feed, a digital window into the precinct's inner workings, becomes a theater where the intricacies of law enforcement dynamics play out. The dialogue unfolds as a series of debates, each officer presenting their stance on jurisdictional boundaries and adherence to established protocols. In the end, the officers turn the fake cops away, demanding that they not come back without the proper paperwork. The fake cops retreat out of the precinct. For the moment, the police precinct remains secure. Unfortunately, I spoke too soon because all the power in the precinct was cut.
From within the holding cell, I overhear Rodriguez expressing not only is the power out, but they also lost the means to communicate with the outside world. No phone, no radios, no cell phone signals, and no internet. The revelation, carried through the air in hushed tones, underscores the severity of the situation. I tap my comlink. The signal is choppy, but it'll have to do. "Spartan, I need immediate backup on my location, multiple hostile forces converging on my position," I say into the comlink to my partner. The choppiness of the signal underscores the challenges posed by the disrupted communication infrastructure. Despite the imperfections, the message is clear. Regardless of the circumstances, I ready myself for the incoming fight. Rodriguez rushes into the holding cell, his demeanor on high alert. "Hold out your hands," he commands, producing a pair of handcuffs. I comply with his orders, extending my hands through the cell bars as he secures the cuffs around my wrists.
[Squad Room.] The detective half-guides and half-drags me out of the holding cell and into the squad room. The atmosphere is tense, and I feel the weight of curious gazes from the officers as they observe the unfolding situation. Rodriguez sits me down at a desk, his expression a mask of concern. Rodriguez, arms folded across his chest, glares at me. "Do you know what's going on right now?" he demands, his tone defensive. I nod, maintaining my calm demeanor, and motion toward the merc inside the holding cell. "Merc's crew is making their move," I respond, my voice steady. The information hangs in the air, a shared acknowledgment of the escalating threat. Rodriguez's expression tightens, and he glances at the mercenary with a mix of concern and frustration. "We've got to secure this place. No one's coming to help us, and we can't let them tear through here," Rodriguez asserts, his focus shifting from interrogating me to addressing the immediate danger. I lean back in my chair, restrained by the handcuffs, but my eyes remain sharp, observing the dynamics of the room.
I look Rodriguez in the eye, a steely determination in my gaze. "Set me loose, and I'll deal with the mercs," I assert, my voice unwavering. My offer carries the weight of a potential solution. Rodriguez hesitates, his arms still folded across his chest. The squad room buzzes with activity, officers scrambling to secure the precinct in the face of the impending threat. The handcuffs remain a barrier, a symbolic representation of the delicate balance between cooperation and distrust. After a moment of contemplation, Rodriguez reluctantly reaches for the keys. The metallic clink of the handcuffs being unlocked resonates in the squad room. I flex my wrists, and the temporary restriction is lifted. With a nod of acknowledgment, I stand up, ready to face the approaching storm.
Rodriguez quickly formulates a plan with one of the other officers, and it's a risky gamble. He wants to try to break out of the range of the jammer to call for help. The plan is fraught with uncertainty, primarily because we don't know the type of jammer the enemy is using, nor do we have any information about the enemy's strength. I voice my objection to the plan, but Rodriguez overrules me. Despite my reservations, Rodriguez and the officers proceed to execute the risky strategy. Although I can't visually observe the unfolding events, my senses are heightened, attuned to the audible cues that permeate the tense atmosphere. The room is filled with an eerie silence, broken only by the unmistakable sound of a suppressed weapon being fired. The sharp, muffled report echoes through the space, leaving an indelible imprint on the unfolding situation. Rodriguez and the others return to the squad room, dragging with them a wounded cop who has been shot in the stomach.
The girl quickly jumps into action, kneeling beside the wounded cop. With a sense of urgency, she applies pressure to the open wound, her movements swift and purposeful. The squad room, still reeling from the unforeseen turn of events, becomes a makeshift emergency scene. Suddenly, the police precinct is hit with a rainfall of bullets. Acting fast, I shield the girl and the wounded cop. The cacophony of bullets hitting surfaces fills the air. My focus narrows as I position myself to provide a protective barrier. The relentless onslaught of bullets underscores the gravity of the threat we face, prompting a rapid calculation of our next moves. Taking the wounded cop's sidearm, I move into action, returning fire in an attempt to repel the onslaught of bullets. The squad room transforms into a chaotic battleground as I aim to provide cover for the girl and the injured officer. The weight of the sidearm in my hand adds a layer of urgency to my movements, and the sharp retort of gunfire becomes a counterpoint to the relentless hail of bullets. My focus narrows as I engage in the firefight, seeking to create a temporary buffer against the assailants; each shot fired a strategic response to the attack on the police precinct.
Within the holding cell, a sudden explosion erupts, sending shockwaves through the precinct. The concussive force rattles the walls, and debris scatters in all directions. Smoke billows out, shrouding the immediate vicinity in a haze of chaos. Through the gaping hole left by the explosion, a squad of mercenaries storms into the precinct, weapons raised. Getting to my feet, I assume a shooting stance and then squeeze the trigger, sending a barrage of gunfire toward the invading mercenaries. Bullets whiz through the air, finding their targets with lethal precision. The squad of mercenaries seeks cover. I maintain my focus, swiftly assessing the situation and adjusting my position to maintain a tactical advantage. The squad room echoes with the intense exchange of gunfire, each shot fired a testament to the escalating conflict within the besieged police precinct. The smoke from the explosion and gunfire intertwines, creating a surreal atmosphere; the officers in the squad room rally alongside me. Together, we form a united front against the invading mercenary force.
Prowling through the chaos of the squad room, I make my way towards the holding cell. Amidst the ongoing firefight, I catch sight of one of the invading mercenaries raising their weapon to shoot open the cell door. The metal door clangs open, releasing the imprisoned mercenary inside. However, their freedom is short-lived. Reacting swiftly, I take aim and fire, the sharp report of my weapon punctuating the chaos. The bullets find their mark. Both mercenaries crumple to the ground. The element of surprise works in our favor this time as the invaders, momentarily distracted by their attempted rescue, fall victim to a well-timed counterattack. The squad room, though still engulfed in the turmoil of the firefight, sees a brief pause as the threat has been neutralized. I maintain my vigilance, anticipating the next move of the remaining mercenaries. Rodriguez's voice cuts through the tumultuous air, commanding attention, "They're retreating!" The sound of gunfire diminishes, replaced by the echoing footsteps of the retreating enemy forces. The squad of officers, now regaining control, maintains a vigilant stance. I lower my weapon, but my senses remain sharp.
Observing through the gaping hole, I witness the mercenaries regrouping outside. The temporary reprieve is overshadowed by the realization that another raid attempt is imminent. 'Shit. These cops don't have the experience or skill to deal with these types of threats,' I think to myself, acknowledging the formidable challenge. I exchange a glance with Rodriguez, the unspoken understanding that the danger is far from over. Taking charge, I address Rodriguez, "We need a plan, and we need it fast. These mercenaries won't hesitate to hit us again, and we can't afford to be caught off guard." The urgency in my voice reflects the critical nature of the situation. Rodriguez, though acknowledging the gravity of the circumstance, wears a determined expression. "We'll hold our ground. But we need to make every shot count," he asserts, rallying the officers for the impending clash. The air in the precinct is thick with tension as we prepare to face the next wave of the mercenary onslaught.
Visible through the shattered window, the mercenaries begin to advance on the precinct. "Get ready, they're coming again," I announce to Rodriguez and the officers in the squad room. Weapons are readied, barricades reinforced, and a tense silence settles over the precinct, interrupted only by the muffled sounds of approaching footsteps. As the mercenaries draw nearer, the anticipation in the precinct becomes palpable.
Once in range, the mercenaries fire their weapons, but a sudden and unexpected twist disrupts the impending chaos. In a surreal display, the bullets they unleash are halted in mid-flight, ensnared by a net of scarlet energy. The officers and I exchange perplexed glances, momentarily caught off guard by this unforeseen turn of events. The mercenaries outside, equally baffled, attempt to comprehend the sudden interruption of their assault. The scarlet net, a manifestation of some unseen force, holds the bullets in a suspended dance, freezing the imminent threat in midair. A familiar figure descends from the sky, cloaked in a scarlet glow – Wanda Maximoff. Spartan drops down next to her. "Stand down," Wanda commands, her voice carrying a weight of authority. The mercenaries hesitate, uncertain of how to proceed. Wanda turns her attention to us, a reassuring yet enigmatic smile on her face. "You're safe now. The cavalry's here," she assures, her words resonating with a comforting certainty. The squad room basks in the protective glow of Wanda Maximoff's powers. The scarlet net dissipates, allowing the suspended bullets to drop harmlessly to the ground. The mercenaries, seemingly realizing the futility of their assault against such a powerful force, retreat only to be surrounded by a small army of SHIELD officers.
[Outside.] Sitting on the sidewalk, I observe the SHIELD officers as they place the cuffed mercenaries into the prisoner van. Spartan walks over to me, a concerned expression on his face. "Rough night?" he inquires. I nod, the weight of the recent events evident in my tired demeanor. "Did the merc tell you anything?" Spartan adds, his gaze probing for any information that might shed light on the motives behind the attack. "No, just empty threats. What I do know is they were hell-bent on getting the girl and the flash drive," I reply, my voice carrying the gravity of the situation.
As the last of the mercenaries is secured in the prisoner van, I reflect on the events that unfolded in the precinct. The night has taken its toll. "Any intel on the flash drive?" Spartan asks, his focus on unraveling the mystery behind the mercenaries' relentless pursuit. "Nope," I reply, shaking my head. "The girl doesn't even know what's on it. According to her, she's just a delivery person." I relay the information I gathered from the girl, emphasizing the apparent lack of knowledge regarding the contents of the flash drive. The situation becomes increasingly enigmatic as the motive behind the attack remains elusive. Spartan absorbs the information, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. The precinct, now under the watchful eye of SHIELD, undergoes a gradual return to normalcy. Yet, the lingering questions about the flash drive and the girl's involvement cast a shadow over the aftermath of the night's events.