I was absurdly grateful when Jimmy finally eased off the accelerator as we approached the George Washington Bridge. His aggressive city driving had mellowed into something approaching safety once we hit the span over the Hudson. Through the passenger window, I watched the familiar Manhattan skyline recede behind us, the late morning sun glinting off windows and steel.
You'd think with all the super geniuses running around this city, someone would have figured out traffic by now I thought, watching a line of cars crawl along the 9A below.
The familiar rhythm of highway driving was oddly soothing after the chaos of the past few days. No explosions, no supervillains, just the mundane reality of crossing state lines to buy stolen memory modules from a cell of unethical scientists. Somehow, this felt like progress.
"So where we eating?" Jimmy asked, checking his watch. "I know a decent Italian place about ten minutes from where we're meeting these guys. Nothing fancy, but the portions are huge and the prices are fair."
"Italian works."
"Yeah, the lasagna's pretty solid, but it's not a patch on my mother's. She's an amazing cook." Jimmy's voice carried that particular warmth people got when talking about family. "Makes this lasagna with this homemade sauce she's been perfecting for like twenty years. Takes her all day Sunday to prep it, but man..."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
For a moment I was back in my parents' kitchen, watching my mother cook pasta while the smell of simmering sauce filled the house. Sunday dinners around the table, my brother complaining about portion sizes while already reaching for seconds, my father talking about his diet. The easy rhythm of family life I'd taken for granted every day until I was seperated from them forever.
I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead, willing my face to stay neutral. My throat felt tight.
Not now. Process this later. After Stane.
The emotional surge receded as quickly as it had come, leaving me feeling hollowed out. I'd been operating on pure tactical thinking for a while now, treating everything like a problem to be solved. Somewhere along the way I'd stopped letting myself feel anything that wasn't immediately useful.
"Sounds like she's a keeper," I managed, proud of how level my voice sounded.
Jimmy was still talking about restaurant options, thankfully oblivious to my momentary lapse.
I fully tuned back into the conversation while Jimmy was mid-rant about pizzas and the making thereof.
"...and don't even get me started on Chicago deep dish. That's not pizza, it's a casserole."
I made appropriate noises of agreement as Jimmy continued his passionate defense of New York pizza supremacy. The conversation drifted from food to sports to whether the Mets had any chance this season (Jimmy was pessimistic), filling the comfortable space between the bridge and our destination. It was exactly the kind of meaningless chatter that helped keep my mind occupied.
The restaurant Jimmy had picked was a small family place tucked between a laundromat and a tire shop, the kind of spot you'd drive past without noticing unless someone told you about it. Inside, red checkered tablecloths and the smell of garlic bread created that timeless Italian-American atmosphere that existed in a thousand similar places across the tri-state area.
We'd made it halfway through generous plates of lasagna and chicken parmigiana when I noticed the framed photograph hanging near the register. Among the typical collection of local sports teams and family pictures was an eight-by-ten of the Thing, orange rocky hide and all, sitting at one of these very tables with an enormous smile and what looked like three empty plates in front of him.
"Is that actually the Thing?" I asked, nodding toward the photo.
Jimmy followed my gaze and grinned. "Oh man, you just opened the floodgates. Tony loves telling this story."
As if summoned, the restaurant's owner—a stocky man in his fifties with flour-dusted apron—appeared at our table. "You asking about my friend Ben?"
"Jimmy mentioned you had a story."
Tony's face lit up. "October of '81. Slow Tuesday night, maybe eight customers in the whole place. In walks this orange guy in a trench coat, hat pulled low, trying to be inconspicuous. Like that's gonna work, right? But he's polite, asks for a corner table, orders the lasagna special."
Tony warmed to his story, gesturing with his hands. "So he eats one portion, then orders another. Then another. Guy puts away four full plates of lasagna, plus bread, plus a Caesar salad the size of a mixing bowl. Whole time he's just sitting there, reading a newspaper, being real quiet and respectful."
"Did people recognize him?"
"Of course! But you know what? Nobody bothered him. Not like those vultures in Manhattan, here in Jersey, we got some class. We let the man eat in peace. When he's done, he comes up to pay, real apologetic about the portions. Leaves a fifty-dollar tip on a thirty-dollar meal and asks if he can come back sometime when it's not so busy."
Jimmy was nodding along like he'd heard this story a dozen times before, which he probably had.
"Been coming in maybe once a month ever since," Tony continued. "Always orders the same thing, always sits in the same corner booth. Nicest guy you'll ever meet. Last Christmas he brought toys for my kids. Real stand-up fellow."
"That's... actually really sweet."
"Yeah, people think these superhero types are all drama and fighting, but most of them are just regular folks trying to do right by people. Ben especially. Guy's got a heart bigger than his appetite, and that's saying something."
Tony headed back to the kitchen, still chuckling. Jimmy was already reaching for his wallet.
"My treat," he said when I started to protest. "My uncle's got it covered. Besides, after that Thing story, I always tip a little extra here."
After our repast, we drove towards one of NJ's many industrial zones. Despite all the divergences from my home timeline with time travelers, aliens and superheroes, the Garden State still seemed to have a thriving pharmaceutical scene. Traditional giants like Johnson & Johnson still dominated alongside several startups and research facilities.
We pulled up to a nondescript office park. The buildings were all variations on the same theme: glass and steel rectangles with tinted windows and small corporate logos. Jimmy navigated through the maze of identical structures until he pulled up in front of a nondescript building.
"This the place?" I asked.
"Should be. They keep a low profile." Jimmy killed the engine and we hopped out.
The glass doors of Meridian Biotech Solutions slid open with a quiet hiss, revealing a sterile lobby that could have belonged to any biotech company in New Jersey. Linoleum flooring, motivational posters about "Innovation Through Science," and the faint smell of industrial disinfectant.
Behind the reception desk sat a young woman in her twenties, blonde hair pulled back in a professional bun, wearing a crisp blue blazer. She looked up from her computer screen with a practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I help you today?"
Jimmy stepped forward with the easy confidence of someone who'd done this before. "We're here to see Patterson about the quarterly samples."
The receptionist's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes. "Of course. Patterson is expecting you. Please proceed through the security door to the elevator at the end of the hall."
We passed through a narrow hallway lined with standard cubicle farms—the usual corporate maze of beige fabric dividers, flickering fluorescent lights, and motivational posters about "teamwork" and "synergy." Nothing you wouldn't find in any 80's startup. But the elevator at the end told a different story entirely.
After we got on the elevator, the descent lasted much longer than it should have for a three-story office building. My ears popped twice as we dropped well past what had to be the foundation level. When the doors finally opened, we stepped into a different world entirely.
The corridor ahead was wider, with polished metal walls and clinical lighting. Through reinforced glass windows, I could see laboratory spaces filled with advanced equipment. I saw what appeared to be a supercomputer in one room, an advanced looking bio-reactor in another, and what appeared to be some sort of automated manufacturing room in another. Technicians in distinctive beekeeper suits moved between workstations with purposeful efficiency, their headgear making them look like a hive of industrial insects. The scale of the operation was impressive. This wasn't some fly-by-night fallback location, it was a fully hidden R&D lab.
But one thing was wrong. The iconic AIM beekeeper suits were... blue. Something about AIM factions and color coding tickled my memory, but as an outsider, keeping my mouth shut seemed smarter than asking questions. I'd try to recall whatever was happening here later.
Jimmy led us into one of the lab spaces where the bank of computers hummed quietly, the LED indicators blinking in complex patterns. A tall, skinny white guy with thick glasses looked up from a terminal and waved us over. He was wearing the blue AIM jumpsuit but had left off the distinctive beekeeper helmet, revealing thinning brown hair and a narrow face.
"Impressive setup," I said, looking around at the advanced computing equipment. "What's the story with your receptionist upstairs?"
"She's an LMD!" called out an energetic voice from behind a separate workstation. "Another AIM cell bought the designs off some Ministry of State Security guys who'd stolen them from SHIELD and we traded for them!"
"Keiko," said the man, "maybe dial it back a notch." He looked up at Jimmy with a nod. "Good to see you again." Then he walked up to me and extended his hand. "Patterson," he said.
"Quince," I responded, shaking his hand.
Patterson turned to Jimmy. "So, I assume you didn't come here for office hours. What's the problem you need AIM's help with?"
Jimmy licked his lips. "We've got a Sentinel with a busted memory brick. Thing won't boot properly - keeps getting memory corruption errors."
Patterson raised an eyebrow. "Proprietary format, I'm guessing?"
"That's about the size of it," I said.
Patterson nodded. "What gen is the Sentinel?"
"Mark V," Jimmy confirmed.
"Did someone say Mark V Sentinel?" A tall, thin Indian man with thick glasses practically sprinted over. "Dr. Raj Patel, robotics specialist. Those are cutting-edge Shaw Industries hardware!"
In his wake, a woman in her forties approached with quiet authority. Silver-streaked black hair, lab coat, sharp assessing eyes. "Dr. Yuki Sato. I oversee operations here. What exactly are you planning to do with this Sentinel?"
Jimmy shifted uncomfortably. "We're part of what's left of Hammerhead's organization, and we wanted to upgun to hold some turf."
Dr. Sato's neutral expression briefly froze. "We prefer working with established clients rather than smaller organized crime families. Groups with more... institutional stability."
Jimmy bristled, then seemed to remember something. "Actually, we might have something else you'd be interested in. We've got a damaged Walking Stiletto in the same warehouse. AIM design, but the energy projector's busted and one of the blade hands is bent to hell."
Dr. Patel's eyes lit up immediately. "A Walking Stiletto? Those are quite rare! Actually, if you're flexible, I'd be willing to trade you a Super-Adaptoid unit I've been tinkering with for just the Sentinel." He pushed his glasses up excitedly. "We've got some of the basic specifications for the new-gen Sentinel hardware - structural components, power systems..."
His expression darkened. "But Shaw kept the development of the main AI processor architecture completely compartmentalized, so we have no idea what their neural processing chips actually look like. And the software..." He shook his head with visible frustration. "Shaw locked that down tighter than anything. The training data, the learning algorithms, all the machine vision and target identification systems - they kept the development of all of that completely in-house. We never got even a—"
Dr. Sato cleared her throat, cutting off Dr.Patel's increasingly mournful monologue. "The Stiletto would certainly make this arrangement more... equitable," she said.
"Fine," Jimmy sighed. "The Stiletto plus cash for the memory module."
"Acceptable," Dr. Sato agreed. "We'll see what we can find in our records about the Sentinel memory architecture. Raj, you'll get your Stiletto."
Dr Sato gestured and a figure in a blue AIM beekeeper suit approached, "Shaw Industries, Mark V generation right? I'll need to check our archives and reach out to another cell, but I believe AIM had some involvement with Shaw's Sentinel development a few years back. We might have the original specifications for the memory rattling around somewhere in our databases. Give me some time to shake a few trees."
The suited technician strode off towards the hall.
Jimmy leaned forward towards Dr. Sato. "Speaking of AIM designs, we also have some damaged Dreadnoughts. Any chance we could get a gyroscope and some replacement power conduits as part of this deal?"
Dr. Sato's expression cooled. "You're pushing it with the memory module request. Adding Dreadnought components on top of that..."
Jimmy spread his hands with a slight grin. "Look, I may be young, but I'm not stupid. Tossing in the Dreadnought parts seems more than equitable to me, especially since you probably have spares sitting around. You don't even have to manufacture them."
Dr. Sato studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Fair point. We do maintain inventory for common repairs."
She gestured at another nearby technician wearing the ubiquitous beekeeper suit. "Grab a ring laser gyroscope and some power distribution manifolds for our young friends here."
The technician returned a few minutes later with a reinforced case, setting it down with a solid thunk that suggested the contents were both heavy and valuable.
After finalizing the pickup details for the Walking Stiletto, we said our goodbyes to the AIM cell. The afternoon sun was starting to angle lower as we made our way back to Jimmy's truck with the parts.
We drove back to the warehouse, Jimmy practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of getting some of the robots operational.
"Let's start with the first Dreadnought," Jimmy said, popping open the case. "Gyroscope replacement should be straightforward if we can get to the housing. Besides, it'll warm us up for the harder problem on the second one, and familiarize us with the layout." He slapped some schematics on the table. "Let's get cracking."
It took us the better part of two hours to access the damaged gyroscope assembly. The Dreadnought's designers had apparently prioritized armor protection over maintenance access, forcing us to remove several armor plates and carefully disconnect a maze of cables before we could reach the multi-axis spine unit.
"Christ," I muttered, staring at the integrated assembly. "Why the hell did they embed the gyro into the spine articulation? That's got to be a maintenance nightmare."
Jimmy shrugged, wrestling with a particularly stubborn connector. "Maybe they figured if the spine's damaged, you're screwed anyway?"
"Still doesn't make sense. Gyros fail more often than structural components. You'd want easy access for replacement." I helped him lift out the damaged unit.
Jimmy whistled as we examined the fused components. "Look at this thing. The gyroscope's integrated directly into the spine." He shook his head. "Classic A.I.M. bullshit. When you get a bunch of scientists designing hardware instead of actual engineers, this is what you get."
He traced the damaged connections with his finger. "This is a really refined ring laser gyro setup - way beyond anything you'd see in commercial applications. Must be at least ten years ahead of what industry can mass-produce."
"There," I said, wiping sweat from my forehead as we finally extracted the damaged gyroscope assembly. "No wonder this thing couldn't stay upright. Look at that. The entire mounting assembly is cracked."
Jimmy examined the cracked housing with a critical eye. "I can fix this. The stress fractures aren't too deep." He headed over to a corner where someone had set up a basic welding station. "Give me twenty minutes."
The acrid smell of welding filled the warehouse as Jimmy worked, filling the cracks with careful bead work and adding reinforcement plates. "Not pretty, but it'll hold," he said, pulling off his welding mask. "Should actually be stronger than the original now."
Installing the new gyroscope was easier than removal. The replacement unit slotted into place with satisfying clicks, and Jimmy's welded repairs held firm as we torqued down the mounting bolts.
After plugging in the Dreadnought to a terminal, I logged in. (yet another serial connector, at least this one wasn't proprietary). I was presented with the below menu.
DREADNOUGHT MARK-I v1.2
SYSTEM STATUS: STANDBY
LAST BOOT: 05/08/84 14:32:07
MAIN MENU:
1. Status
2. Mission Load
3. Weapons Check
4. Motor Test
5. Error Report
0. Shutdown
SELECT:
>Click to expand...
I selected option 1 for Status:
STATUS CHECK:
RTG Output: 2.1kW (87%)
Thermal: GREEN
Weapons: ARMED
Motors: FUNCTIONAL
Sensors: ONLINE
Gyro: STABILIZED
Mission Status: UNINITALIZED
Faults: NONE
Press any key to continue...Click to expand...
"That's it?" I said. "The Sentinel had about one thousand different diagnostic submenus."
"Different priorities," Jimmy replied, pushing his glasses up. "The Dreadnought's got built-in scripting support. A.I.M. figured their techs could write custom diagnostics rather than bloating the interface with preset menus. Shaw Industries assumed their users wanted everything pre-built and idiot-proofed."
"So if we wanted detailed motor diagnostics..."
"We'd script it ourselves." Jimmy looked at me with interest. "Actually, that's part of why I asked my uncle for someone with electronics chops. I'd love custom test cases to really hammer out some gremlins."
I nodded. "We'll get there. First let's make sure we have more working hardware to test."
"One down," Jimmy said with satisfaction. "Now let's see about those power conduits for the second one."
The second Dreadnought was in worse shape. Someone had hit it with some sort of energy weapon that had overloaded the entire electrical system, leaving blackened conduits and fused relays throughout the torso.
"This is going to take longer," I muttered, examining the damage. "A lot of the power distribution network is just unusable."
Jimmy peered over my shoulder at the exposed circuitry running through the torso section. "What about starting from the power supply? Work our way out from there?"
"That's probably our best bet," I said, tracing the melted pathways with a screwdriver. "The freon tank cooling system looks intact, and if the RTG is still good..." I paused, following the damage upward. "Shit. Look at this."
The burn patterns climbed right up through the multi-axis elbow joint and into the shoulder assembly. Half the servo motors in the arm and shoulder musculature were slag, their casings cracked and components fused together.
Jimmy hissed. "Fuuuuck."
He rubbed his face with both hands, then looked again, hoping the damage might have magically lessened. It hadn't.
"We'd have to pull the whole shoulder articulation unit apart," Jimmy said, stating the obvious. "All those multi-axis joints, the torso support ribs..." He gestured helplessly at the melted components. "This isn't a patch job anymore. We're basically assembling a Dreadnought from scratch at this point."
The rumble of a truck pulling up outside echoed through the warehouse. Jimmy stretched, then checked his watch—7:45 PM.
"That'll be our A.I.M. friends," he said, walking over to open the door that separated the robot storage area from the loading dock. Through the doorway, one of the guards had appeared, looking alert. Jimmy caught the man's eye and gave him a thumbs up. "Right on time."
He turned back to the damaged Dreadnought with visible relief. "Welcome distraction. I was starting to get depressed just looking at this mess."
We walked through the door to meet the A.I.M. team at the loading dock. The lead guy was Asian-American, maybe mid-thirties, with the kind of methodical movements that suggested an engineering background. His two companions looked like technicians - one was a stocky Italian guy with oil-stained hands, the other a petite Latina woman wearing safety glasses pushed up on her forehead. All three were dressed in regular street clothes instead of the distinctive AIM suits, probably to avoid the wrong kind of attention.
"You Jimmy Torrio?" the lead man asked.
"That's me. You brought the memory module?"
The man nodded and pulled a small padded case from the van. "Shaw Industries compatible,, just like you requested. I'm David Wang, by the way." He gestured to his companions. "Tommy handles fabrication, Rosa does materials."
I examined the memory module while Jimmy handed over the cash in a large duffel bag. It looked identical to the damaged one I'd pulled from the Sentinel, but the circuit traces seemed cleaner somehow, more precisely etched.
"This is good work," I said. "How long did the fabrication take?"
"About three hours once we had the specs," David replied. "Shaw Industries contracted an AIM cell to help them with an alloy for their Sentinel project back in '81 - some of the exotic compounds they needed aren't exactly available through normal supply chains."
He gestured at the replacement module. "When you're supplying the raw materials and doing quality testing on the fabrication process, you end up with complete technical specifications. Shaw gets their materials, we get paid very well, and everyone pretends it didn't happen." David shrugged. "Defense contractors need us more than they'd ever admit."
We headed back to the Sentinel, and I climbed the scaffold one more time. The new module slotted in perfectly, and when I powered up the diagnostic terminal, my heart raced as the boot sequence ran without a single character corruption.
"We're ready."
The AIM team had brought proper equipment for moving heavy machinery - a hydraulic lift and reinforced dolly that made the job look almost professional. Tommy took charge of the loading operation with the kind of precision that spoke to years of experience.
"Careful with that arm assembly," Tommy warned as we approached the damaged robot. "The stress fractures look pretty nasty,and we wouldn't want to break it now."
The real problem became apparent as soon as we tried to position the lift. The Walking Stiletto's blade-hands made it impossible to grip normally - every attempt to maneuver it resulted in the razor-sharp appendages either gouging the equipment or threatening to slice through the straps.
"Christ, who designs a robot with sword hands and expects people to move it around?" Jimmy muttered, trying to work a support strap around the torso without getting too close to the arms.
"Someone who never had to do maintenance," Tommy replied grimly, wrestling with the lift's controls as the robot's weight shifted unpredictably. The blade-arms kept catching on the lift mechanism, forcing us to constantly readjust our approach.
David was examining the robot with obvious fascination. "The weapon integration is remarkable," he said, running his eyes over the blade assemblies. "Whoever designed this really understood both metallurgy and energy projection systems. Too bad they were complete shit at ergonomics."
It took another twenty minutes of careful maneuvering and creative oaths before we finally got the Walking Stiletto secured on the dolly. Getting it into the van required even more delicate work - the blade-hands had to be carefully positioned to avoid puncturing the vehicle's interior or catching on the doors.
After what seemed like a herculean effort, we all flopped down inside the warehouse, breathing hard. Jimmy leaned against a workbench, Rosa sat on a shipping crate, and David just stood there with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. Even Tommy, the most fit of us, looked wiped out from the ordeal.
"Next time we're moving something," Rosa said, wiping sweat from her forehead, "let's make sure it has normal hands."
David dusted his hands off with obvious relief. "So..." he began when the night exploded in a burst of automatic gunfire - the distinctive rapid-fire chatter of a machine pistol echoing from the direction of the loading bay.
The AIM team's reaction was immediate. David drew a compact energy pistol from a shoulder holster, while Tommy produced a snub-nosed .38. Rosa had some sort of bulky pistol in her hands that I suspected was sonic.
"Mickey or Frank," Jimmy said grimly, his knuckles white around his own piece. "Loading bay."
The burst lasted maybe three seconds before cutting off abruptly - either the shooter was down, had ducked for cover, or was reloading. In the sudden silence that followed, everyone sprinted towards cover.
Jimmy scrambled awkwardly behind a stack of shipping containers, nearly losing his footing on the smooth concrete. David stumbled toward a concrete pillar, his energy pistol wavering in his grip as he tried to orient himself. Rosa ducked behind a crate with jerky, panicked movements.
I threw myself behind a shelf, heart hammering as I fumbled for my needle pistol with sweating hands.
Tommy moved with practiced efficiency, sliding behind a rusted out forklift.
The remaining mob bodyguard burst through the loading dock door, a Uzi in one hand, his face pale and blood seeping from a graze on his shoulder. "Strike team!" he gasped, throwing himself behind the same concrete pillar as David. "Five of 'em. Military gear, moving like pros. They got Sal and Mickey already!"
David cursed in what sounded like Mandarin. "What? We swept for surveillance, we'd have seen—"
Half a second later, the reinforced steel door separating the loading bay from the main warehouse simply ceased to exist. A figure in bright magenta power armor slammed through the wall, pulverizing steel, concrete, and rebar in an explosion of debris that sent chunks of masonry flying across the warehouse floor. The bulky suit was intimidating, with oversized shoulder pauldrons and a dark T-shaped visor that completely obscured the wearer's face. Scuff marks and carbon scoring along the plates suggested the operator had already seen action tonight.
Behind him came four more figures moving with military precision—a standard fireteam with sleek masks that covered their entire faces. The smooth, featureless surfaces were matte white ceramic, broken only by dark horizontal slits for the eyes and subtle ventilation grilles over the mouth.
Their black bodysuits were form-fitting tactical gear, but red elements elevated them beyond standard military issue. Each chest bore a distinctive crimson "U" shape with two vertical lines running down through its center, and red tactical webbing across their torsos held ammunition in precisely organized configurations.
Each operative carried a HK91. Advanced optics crowned each weapon, and tactical lights were mounted beneath the barrels.
Without a word, the power-armored leader raised his arm and opened fire with a built-in sonic cannon. The concussive blast roared across the warehouse in a cone of crackling energy, shattering crates and sending debris flying. As the blast faded, the fireteam sprinted forward, their rifles tracking for targets.
What the hell is the Hellfire Club doing here? The thought cut through my panic as I squeezed off some shots in the general direction of the door's former location. Those red "U" markings were unmistakable - Hellfire Club mercenary uniforms. This was supposed to be a simple robot repair job, not some high-society conspiracy.
Another concussive blast shattered a shelf. My questions would have to wait