"You asked about the future Danny, right?" I began, seizing the opportunity to explain the risks without directly revealing my knowledge of The Hand's exact current operations. "Then I'll tell you a story, one of his adventures, filled with... well, let's just say, a good deal of stupidity and mindlessness." My tone was carefully neutral, but my internal thoughts were already preparing for her inevitable protective response.
"Hey, my Danny is pretty smart!" Aunt Heather interrupted, a fierce maternal protectiveness flaring in her eyes, even as the cold wind bit at her cheeks. Her chin jutted out defiantly.
Well then, I'm sorry for your loss, I thought, a sarcastic internal retort to her misplaced pride. If only she knew.
"He might be now," I said, a faint, almost pitying smile touching my lips. "But in the future, when he met me, all he had was muscle for brains, which he hadn't exercised in a very long time. His decision-making skills were… let's just say, highly questionable." I pointed, metaphorically, to the bleak future of Danny's IQ, and the misguided path he might take if left unchecked.
"What did he do?" she couldn't help but become curious at my words, her earlier defensiveness now replaced by a morbid fascination, a flicker of genuine alarm in her eyes. The idea of her intelligent son being a "muscle-brain" was clearly unsettling.
"Well, in the future, we found out Harold Meachum isn't dead—" I began, launching into the convoluted tale. I proceeded to tell her the full story of how Harold faked his death to the public, setting up a complex web of deception. I explained how Harold claimed he was controlled by a mysterious, shadowy organization called The Hand, portraying himself as a victim, desperate for help. I recounted how Danny, in his naive faith and desperate longing for a parental figure, believed Harold's simple, yet utterly manipulative, story of being a good guy. He almost became a pawn, a thug, for Harold to use against The Hand's own leaders, manipulated into doing Harold's dirty work while believing he was fighting for justice. I made sure to emphasize how easily Harold had pulled the wool over his eyes with a seemingly innocent story, and how I then had to intervene, not just physically but by forcing him to see the truth.
Though I conveniently didn't speak about me beating him up to vent my frustration for losing to him all the time in our spars and for his sheer idiocy, I mentally added, a private, vengeful thought that brought a flicker of dark, satisfying amusement. That part was just for me, a little bonus for all the trouble he caused.
When I finished my story, detailing Harold's cunning, his manipulation of Danny, and Danny's almost-fatal gullibility, Aunt Heather quickly came close. Her hands shot out, gripping my shoulders tightly, her eyes wide with horrified understanding. Her face was pale, a stark contrast to the redness from the cold. "We need to get him out of whatever place he is in," she exclaimed, her voice filled with desperate urgency, bordering on a raw scream. "And we need to do it fast! Before they completely destroy his tinking ability!!"
What!? What happened now?! I thought, bewildered by her sudden, intense reaction. Her fear seemed disproportionate to the story I had told. It was almost as if she was connecting dots I hadn't explicitly laid out.
"Why?" I asked, genuinely confused by her extreme distress.
"So they don't destroy the thinking ability of my son!" she cried, her face twisted into a mask of pure dread, a reflection of how truly terrified she was of the potentially dreadful future Danny. "How can someone be so stupid to believe a story like the one Harold told him? My son is brilliant! They must be brainwashing him! We have to save his mind!"
"So you agree he acted like an idiot," I couldn't help but interject, a small, triumphant smirk on my face, a tiny victory in this strange, harrowing conversation.
"Ugh... let's not talk about it," she conceded, waving a dismissive hand, clearly annoyed by my point but unwilling to argue further. "So, the danger you speak of comes from Harold finding out I'm alive?"
"Yes, that's one part," I said, my expression turning serious again. "And I strongly suspect he has already collaborated with The Hand at this time, in this timeline. He wouldn't leave a loose end like you. They would see your survival as a threat to their carefully constructed deception." I elaborated on the deeper reason for my caution, the hidden layers of danger that made a simple flight home impossible.
"Is 'The Hand' the gang that recently started working in New York? The ones with the odd symbols?" she asked, her voice containing a surprising amount of certainty, a hint of recognition that sent a jolt through me.
How did she know about them? I wondered, my curiosity piqued. This wasn't something a normal civilian, especially one presumed dead, should know. It implied a deeper, more unsettling connection.
"You know about them?" I asked, my surprise evident.
"They came to Wendell for a partnership regarding the docks, a few months before the crash," Aunt Heather replied, her brow furrowed in thought as she recalled the details, her gaze distant. "He rejected them, of course. Said they were 'bad business' and had a 'foul stench' about them. He was usually good at reading people."
"When did this meeting happen?" I pressed, a cold knot forming in my stomach. The timeline was crucial.
"About seven or eight months ago," Aunt Heather replied after thinking for a moment, her brow still furrowed in concentration.
That means they had enough time to prepare, to lay their groundwork, I thought, the implications of her words sending a chill down my spine. My suspicions were solidifying into grim, undeniable facts.
"Looks like my suspicions were right," I muttered, my voice tight, the puzzle pieces clicking into a terrifying picture.
"What suspicions?" she asked, her eyes wide with apprehension, clearly sensing the gravity in my tone.
"The Hand is an organization about two hundred years old," I explained, laying out the chilling history, carefully omitting the more fantastical elements for now. "They are people who were exiled from K'un-Lun for some serious crimes and are a sworn enemy of the 'Iron Fist.' They were most likely involved in the plane crash you suffered, Mrs. Rand. It was most likely a targeted hit."
"You mean it wasn't an accident?" she asked, her voice surprisingly steady, though a deep, raw pain flickered in her eyes. It seemed she wasn't entirely surprised by the revelation, perhaps having pieced together parts of it herself.
Looks like she reached the same conclusion from the story I told her, I mused, observing her reaction. Her sharp insight was both impressive and unsettling.