After a silent drive through the darkened streets, we pulled up at 72nd and Amsterdam. I shook hands with the AIM team as they prepared to head back to New Jersey.
"Good luck," David said. The van pulled away, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my wounds throbbing and my clothes reeking of gunpowder.
I buzzed apartment 4B and waited.
"Yes?" came Dr. Forrest's tired voice.
"It's Quince again. I need medical attention. Again."
There was a longer pause this time. "Same floor as before, take the elevator."
Dr. Forrest was waiting in the room, his expression notably less welcoming than before. He took in my torn jeans, bloodstained jacket, and visible field dressings.
"Let me guess," he said dryly. "Another concrete pillar?"
"Gunfight this time. Caught some shrapnel."
He shook his head. "You know, when I told you to invest in body armor, I was being serious." He gestured toward the examination table. "Shirt and pants off."
Dr. Forrest whistled as he examined the damage. "Professional work on these tourniquets. Military training?"
"Something like that."
He began cleaning the wounds. "Two visits in as many days. You're either the unluckiest man in New York, or you're in a line of work that involves people shooting at you regularly."
"Does it matter?"
"From a medical standpoint? No. From a business standpoint..." He really looked at me. "Most people your age who end up on my table twice in one day are either dead within a month, or they learn to find safer employment. Since you're a terrible patient, and since I doubt you're taking my advice about desk jobs, do I have to watch you to make sure you rest?"
I hummed."Question is, how fast can you get me back on my feet?"
Dr. Forrest paused in his stitching. "That depends on how much you're willing to spend, and how many questions you're comfortable not asking."
"What do you mean?"
"Standard treatment—stitches, antibiotics, painkillers—you're looking at three weeks minimum. But if you're willing to pay more, I can hook you up with advanced medications. Experimental dermal regeneration compounds and something for the bruised ribs. Two grand, around a week recovery time."
He continued stitching. "But there's another option, if you're really desperate. I know a med student—goes by 'Stitch'—who's got some very unusual talents. Works out of a clinic in the Village, keeps things quiet. His healing methods are unconventional but extremely effective."
"What kind of unconventional?"
"The kind that can take injuries like yours and have you walking out completely healed in under an hour. Five thousand for a full session. Cash only, no questions, and you never mention his name."
"What's the catch?"
"He reads people. Has to trust that you won't cause problems or ask too many questions about his methods.."
Dr. Forrest finished the stitches and began bandaging. "Think about it. Standard treatment, you're laid up for weeks. Advanced meds, maybe a week. Stitch, five grand and you walk out like nothing happened."
I considered this while getting dressed. "Can you give me 5 minutes to think it over?"
You need to move fast. Get healed, get back out there, and make your plays while you still can. Five grand would be a hit to my wallet, but what's the point of having money if you don't spend it when it matters?
The thought triggered a memory—my mother's voice from years ago as she counted out bills for my college textbooks. "Money exists to be spent, baby. You can't take it with you, and you can't eat it. When it matters, you spend it."
But then another memory surfaced, sharper and more recent. The same voice, but older, wearier, after I had made a mistake because I was hurrying. "Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is take your time. Always be willing to step back and think things through."
The familiar ache hit me like a physical blow, that crushing realization that I'd never hear either piece of advice again. Never jokingly argue with her about basketball over Sunday dinner, never call to ask if I was making the right choice. She was gone, they were all gone, existing in a world I could never reach again.
I pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes, forcing the emotion down before it could overwhelm me. Not now. I couldn't afford to break down in a doctor's office.
When I looked up, the decision felt clearer. My mother had been right both times. Money was meant to be spent when it mattered, but panic was the enemy of good judgment. Two thousand for the advanced meds was the smart play. I'd still have most of my capital, I'd gain some idea of the state of cutting edge medicine, and I'd have time to learn and think before my next moves.
If the heroes showed up again while I was recovering, well, I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
I pulled out the envelope and counted out two hundred for tonight's work, "For the consultation." I counted out 2000. "For the meds."
Dr.Forrest nodded. "Ok." He walked over to a cabinet, extracting a bag.
He pulled out and held up a tube of what appeared to be a topical cream. "First we have some dermal regernation cream. First,we've got Oscorp's BioRegenex-7. But here's where it gets interesting..." He pulled out an almost identical tube with different branding. "Genetech was scrambling to get their own version - RegeneLife - to market before the injunctions hit. Same results, slightly different formula."
I quirked my eyebrow."Industrial espionage?"
Dr. Forrest gave me a look. "What I can tell you is that Oscorp claims Genetech stole their research, Genetech says they developed it independently." He shrugged. "Court hit both companies with injunctions that froze everything while a small army of lawyers duke it out."
I leaned forward. "Which version am I getting?"
"You'll get the BioRegenex-7," Forrest said, holding up the Oscorp tube. "Oscorp was already in Phase III trials - nearly ready for market approval. Genetech? They were still in Phase I when they got the injunction. They were trying to leapfrog straight to Phase III with minimal safety data." He gestured at both tubes. "I stick with what's had proper long-term testing. That's why you're paying premium prices - what you can get is leftover clinical trial stock that never made it to market."
From the bag, he also pulled out a bottle of pills with a Merck logo. "Now these are from Merck - enhanced anti-inflammatory compounds with synthetic prostaglandin inhibitors. Originally developed for accelerated soft tissue trauma recovery in military applications, but it works exceptionally well for rib contusions and bruising."
He held up the bottle. "Normal bruised rib healing takes 4-6 weeks because of the constant movement from breathing and the limited blood flow to rib cartilage. These target the inflammatory response directly and improve microcirculation to damaged tissue. Should cut your recovery time to about a week, maybe ten days."
I nodded. "What's the story with this one?"
"Military medical trials only - never made it through FDA approval for civilian use. The military wanted something to get soldiers back in action faster after blunt force trauma. Effective, but the approval process got bogged down in bureaucracy and funding issues."
Dr. Forrest set the bottle down. "Take one twice daily with food. You might notice some stomach sensitivity, and avoid alcohol completely while taking these - the interaction can cause liver stress."
He picked up one of the topical tubes again. "For the dermal regeneration cream, apply a thin layer to both wound sites every eight hours. Clean the area first, pat dry, then spread it evenly. Don't overdo it - more isn't better with this stuff. The wounds should start showing significant improvement within 48 hours."
"So how do you get all this?"
"Let's just say I maintain relationships with people who have access to experimental stockpiles and military surplus. The beauty of working with people who value discretion - I don't ask too many questions about where things come from, they don't ask too many questions about where they're going."
He reached back into the bag one more time and pulled out a simple white bottle with basic labeling. "And finally, good old-fashioned amoxicillin. Generic antibiotic, nothing fancy about it." He shook the bottle with a slight smile. "This'll keep your wounds from getting infected. After all that cutting-edge , sometimes you can't beat the classics. Take 500 milligrams every 8 hours."
I grabbed the bag. "Thanks Doc. I'll look into getting some body armor."
He nodded, already turning back to his work. "See that you do."
The journey back to my bunker felt endless. The subway ride was torture. Every jolt and bang of the train car sent fresh spikes of pain through my ribs and wounds. By the time I climbed the stairs back to street level, the weight of the medical bag seemed to increase with each block I walked.
When I finally stepped out of the elevator into the bunker, I was running on fumes, dog tired, and still aching.
I didn't bother with anything beyond collapsing in the bunk room. Tomorrow would bring improvement, I hoped.
I woke to the familiar gnawing in my stomach and surveyed my breakfast options. Canned peaches beat nothing, so I cracked open a tin and washed them down with some powdered milk that tasted like chalk dissolved in water.
With breakfast handled, I turned to more pressing matters. Dr. Forrest's medical bag sat on the small kitchen counter, right where I had dumped it before slumping into bed. I started with the Merck anti-inflammatory pills, dry-swallowing two with a grimace before chasing them with the awful milk. The amoxicillin capsule went down easier, but sadly, I hadn't gone blind to the taste of the milk.
The real work came next. I peeled back the bandages on my thigh and forearm, examining the puncture wounds. They looked cleaner than yesterday—no angry red edges or concerning discharge—but remained tender when I probed gently around the edges. The BioRegenex-7 cream felt surprisingly cool as I spread thin layers across both sites, a welcome contrast to the persistent heat of the wounds.
Fresh gauze completed the job. The entire ritual took maybe fifteen minutes.
I pulled out the slip of paper with Vito's contact information. Time to give him a call and see what was next. I grabbed my jacket, made sure I had enough quarters for the payphone, and headed back up to street level.
Stepping out onto the street, I stretched carefully, working out the stiffness from sleeping in and the pain from my wounds. I checked my watch. It was about 10:30 AM. I'd slept in longer than usual, but my body had needed it. The morning sun felt good on my shoulders as I tenderly walked towards the payphone.
Vito picked up after 2 rings. "Heard about the job. Tony was impressed with how you handled yourself."
"Thanks. Listen, I'm still interested in that Stane International intel we discussed. When can you get it to me?"
"About that - my intel broker says it's going to take longer than usual. There's been a lot of reshuffling since the takeover. New head of security, new procedures, people getting transferred or quitting. He's confident he can get what you need, but he's got to rebuild his sources inside the facility first."
"How long are we talking?"
"One to two weeks. Lot of demoralized people over there are happy to give up some information with the right incentive, but it'll take a while to sound them out. The good news is I've got other work for you in the meantime. Out-of-town client came to NYC on business. She needs a local with technical skills who can also handle themselves if things get interesting. She'll be in town for a while, so no need to rush into it."
There was a pause, and Vito's voice took on a more cautious tone. "Fair warning though - something feels off about her. I've worked with a guy who does contract work for the CIA - Skip somebody, runs some kind of agricultural operation upstate. Anyways, when I was helping him out, I ran into some real weird G-Man who might have been his case officer."
Vito's voice got quieter, more serious. "Look, I did two tours in 'Nam, got out just as 'Nam was winding done and before they started shipping GI's to that Siancong mess. Saw plenty of spooks running around. Most of 'em were just regular guys doing a job, you know? But every once in a while you'd run into one of these... what's the word... true believers. The kind who'd been neck deep in the shit so long they forgot how to act human. Dead eyes, talked like everything was just another mission parameter."
He paused. "Skip's minder had that same smell on him, if you know what I mean. Talked real polite, real professional, but there was something underneath. Like he was always measuring you up for a coffin. Gave me the creeps."
I raised an eyebrow. "The client gives you the same type of willies?"
"Yep. Something about her reminds me of that spook. Could be she's just British - maybe their organized crime types run cold like that. But there's something else there too. Keep your eyes open."
"Gotcha." I nodded. "I got banged up a bit on the last job, I'm taking about a week to recover,and then I'll get in touch with your client."
I could almost feel Vito's shrug through the phone. "I'll let her know you'll be in touch in a week or so. Don't do anything stupid in the meantime."
I hung up and took stock of my situation. I needed supplies, but more importantly, I needed to stay connected to what was happening in the world above.
If I was going to spend the next week underground recovering, I couldn't afford to be blind to what was happening on the surface. The last thing I wanted was to emerge from my week of healing only to discover I'd missed the return of the Avengers. The bunker's radio system should suffice for that.
The grocery situation was just as pressing. I had maybe two days worth of canned goods left, and if I was planning to lay low in the bunker for a full week, I needed to stock up properly. No more emergency runs to the surface when I got hungry, I didn't want any potential observers to notice a pattern.
I walked into a corner bodega on 42nd Street, just a few blocks from the warehouse. The owner, a middle-aged Dominican man, barely looked up from his newspaper as I filled my basket. I grabbed essentials for a week underground: a loaf of bread that would last, peanut butter, strawberry jam, a box of Corn Flakes, some instant coffee, and powdered creamer. Real breakfast food instead of canned peaches,powdered milk and sadness.
For longer-term sustenance, I added canned soup. Tomato, chicken noodle, and split pea plus crackers, more canned peaches, and a few TV dinners that would work with the bunker's microwave. I picked up some Valencia oranges, bananas that were actually yellow instead of green, and a carton of apple juice that promised it was "100% natural" with the earnestness of an era that hadn't yet become cynical about marketing claims.
At the dairy case, I grabbed a dozen eggs, some milk in glass bottles that required a deposit, and a stick of butter. The whole transaction felt pleasantly anachronistic as I counted out bills while the bodega owner bagged everything in brown paper sacks.
Walking back to the warehouse with my groceries gave me time to think. Vito's reference nagged at me. Someone with CIA connections and an "agricultural operation upstate" named Skip had only one answer as to who it could be. I vaguely remembered he had been a Daredevil antagonist briefly, and he did have CIA ties, but I had forgotten what exactly Skip had been up to in the comics, which made it harder to puzzle out what my favorite fixer would have had to do with him.
Back in the bunker, after putting my groceries in the kitchen, I headed straight to the communications room to see what radio equipment was available. The room was laid out efficiently: along the left wall sat the three computer terminals I'd encountered before. The developer terminal that I'd used to change the door passwords sat on a desk in the center of the room. Four different transceivers were mounted in equipment racks along the right wall, each with its own frequency display and control panel. At the far end of the room sat what was unmistakably satellite communication equipment, complete with a control unit and status displays that suggested it could handle both voice and data transmission.
The satellite equipment caught my eye as I passed. Most of it looked like standard 1970s SATCOM gear. Heavy rack-mounted frequency converters, antenna positioning controls, waveguide connections disappearing up through the ceiling. The control panel showed telltale orbital tracking readouts: azimuth and elevation coordinates updating in real-time, satellite ephemeris data, and acquisition sequences that suggested this system could automatically lock onto satellites in geostationary orbit. But there was one module that definitely didn't belong. A small crystalline component, maybe the size of a paperback book, was grafted into the main signal processing rack. Its organic curves and iridescent surface looked grown rather than manufactured, completely at odds with the angular military hardware surrounding it. Whatever it was, The Corporation hadn't built it.
I filed that observation away for later investigation and focused on my immediate goal. After about five minutes of examining the different radio units—trying to figure out which one could handle standard FM broadcasts while avoiding what were clearly HF transceivers and what looked like a VHF scanner—I found what I needed. One of the four radios had familiar frequency markings for the 88-108 MHz band.
When I powered it up and tuned across the dial, I caught the tail end of a smooth tenor saxophone and some piano chords at 88.3 FM.
'That was "I Should Care" from Dexter Gordon's classic 1955 album "Dexter Blows Hot and Cool," here on WBGO, Newark. Coming up next, we've got some Bill Evans...'
I had to smile at the incongruity of using a criminal organization's expensive communications equipment as my personal AM/FM radio. But the music filled the oppressive silence of the bunker and gave me something other than my isolation to focus on.
Letting my mind relax utterly into the background music from the bunker's radio, I thought back to the blue AIM suits I had seen. I racked my mind, thinking about what I knew from the comics. There had been a cosmic cube that that faction of AIM had stolen. The details of that weren't important, but from another half-remembered issue, I thought blue AIM was against MODOK's leadership, and yellow AIM was under MODOK's control.
I remembered that the blue AIM faction disappeared from the comics in the mid to late 80s. My best guess was that they had merged with AIM proper again after MODOK was deposed and assassinated by the Serpent Society. Which meant the cell I'd just dealt with was part of a splinter faction that would be reintegrated within the next few years.
That raised a few more interesting questions about how dependent the culture of individual cells was on the org as a whole, but wrenching my mind away from that rabbithole, I refocused on my other question.
Atlas Auto. I saw the truck the Maggia had used to move that sentinel last night was owned by them. Something about that name was ringing alarm bells. I focused again, racking my brain ..
Agents of Atlas. That was it. But wait - I frowned, my eyes still closed as I tried to sort through the timeline implications. Jimmy Woo and his team weren't supposed to be active yet. The Agents of Atlas were a modern-day (read, early 2000s) revival of the 1950s G-Men team.
I sat back down, unconsciously checking the bandages on my forearm. The jazz from the radio shifted to a slower number, piano filling the silence again.
The Atlas Foundation was already operating. In fact, according to what I could remember, the Foundation had been around for centuries, tracing its lineage back to Genghis Khan. I absently picked up one of the floppy disks from the desk, turning the thin plastic square over in my hands while I thought. The Yellow Claw had been running it during the 1950s when Jimmy Woo first encountered him as an FBI agent.I vaguely recalled that later comics had retconned him as actually being called the Golden Claw, probably to move him away from the whole generic yellow peril villain shtick.
I set the disk down and rubbed my temples. Woo wouldn't take over the Foundation until much later, after his near-death experience and revival by his old teammates.
So in 1984, the Atlas Foundation should still be under the Golden Claw's control - a criminal organization with legitimate business fronts scattered across the globe. The bunker's ventilation system hummed quietly in the background as I processed this. Atlas Auto could easily be one of those fronts, used for smuggling weapons or other illicit activities. Tony's crew might have bought a truck without realizing they were funding an ancient secret society. Then again, you couldn't go 12 feet in 616 NYC without tripping over someone's scheme, as evidenced by the bunker I was sitting in.
I remembered Atlas having an extensiveamount of fronts. I stood up, pacing the small communications room as the implications hit me. Atlas Auto was probably just one business among hundreds. Atlas Mining, Atlas Records, Atlas Biotech, Atlas this, Atlas that. The majority of businesses with "Atlas" in the name were supposedly connected to the Foundation in some way. Living in a world with these types of conspiracies was quietly terrifying.
I was mentally cataloging what other Atlas fronts I could remember, my steps echoing off the concrete walls, when a particularly disturbing memory surfaced, and I froze.
Atlas Orphanage.
I could picture the comic panel now. Jimmy Woo and his team raiding the orphanage and finding a group of psychic children. The Foundation had been using orphaned kids as psychic assets, developing their abilities for some sort of malicious purpose.
And just like that, the bottom dropped out of my stomach.
Psychics.
How had this not occurred to me before? I'd been so focused on physical threats, on technology and crime families and robots, so grounded in my own preconceptions and caught up in the course of events that I'd completely overlooked one of the most dangerous aspects of the Marvel universe. There were people out there who could reach into my head and pluck out everything I knew. Every piece of metaknowledge, every strategic advantage, every secret about timelines and future events...all of it could be stripped away in seconds by the right telepath.
I felt my mind start racing, spiraling through increasingly paranoid scenarios. What if Emma Frost decided to do a casual scan of everyone in the city? What if Professor Xavier noticed an anomaly in my thought patterns? What if some random psychic got lucky and-
Calm down. Think.
I forced myself to focus, pushing down the rising panic. Logic. Work through this logically.
Most of the heavy-hitter telepaths were either off-planet or dead right now. The lower-level telepaths, the ones who might actually encounter someone like me, generally weren't powerful enough to do a deep dive through my head without me noticing.
Still, I needed to be more careful. Avoid situations where psychics might be present. Maybe look into some kind of mental shielding. That tech definitely existed, but was a bit above my paygrade right now.
I added "PSYCHIC THREAT ASSESSMENT - URGENT" to my notebook in large letters, then underlined it twice.
How the hell had I overlooked something this fundamental for this long? The thought made my chest tighten with anxiety I couldn't afford to indulge right now. Dwelling on threats I had no immediate way to counter would just spiral into useless worry. Better to focus on problems I could actually solve with the resources at hand.
I walked to the R&D room bookshelf and pulled the field craft manual off it. If I was going to keep getting caught up in shootouts, the least I could do was learn to navigate them with something approaching competence. I cracked it open to the first chapter, settling in for what I hoped would be a productive week of recovery.
The rest of the week passed with me gradually building up my strength and working through the field craft manual. Dr. Forrest's experimental meds were proving their worth. By Sunday the 13th the BioRegenex-7 had accelerated the scabbing process on my shrapnel wounds, and by Thursday the scabs were already flaking off to reveal fresh skin underneath.
The anti-inflammatory pills had reduced the constant ache in my ribs from sharp stabs to dull throbs.I could move around without constantly favoring one side. I'd managed to absorb most of the surveillance and counter-surveillance sections. I had started practicing observation drills by memorizing every detail of each room in the bunker, then testing my recall. The close-quarters combat chapter had proven useful too. I'd developed a rudimentary grasp of the palm strikes and eye gouges, though I found myself wishing for a sparring partner or at least a heavy bag to really practice on. The thought crossed my mind that Taskmaster might be an option someday, assuming I could afford his services.
The most interesting interruptions to my week came from the seismograph monitoring station—two alerts on separate nights, both seeming closer to my location than the previous ones had been. Probably just the natural settling of old tunnel systems after whatever construction project had been disturbing them finished up.
By Friday afternoon, however, I was getting restless enough to tackle something more complex. Around 2 PM I found myself in the R&D/workshop room, carefully disassembling one of the remaining SHIELD plasma rifles. The Heckler & Koch PEW-2 was a fascinating piece of engineering, and the maintenance manual made for a helpful guide to the gun's internals. I'd cranked up the volume on the communications room speakers and left the door open so I could hear the radio from down the hall while I worked. I was identifying the magnetic bottle components when the radio's tone shifted from the usual local news to something more formal.
"We go now to a special announcement from the Vision, speaking on behalf of the Avengers..."
The Vision's voice was undeniably artificial, but not in the way you'd expect from text-to-speech or even advanced speech synthesis. It was perfectly articulated—each consonant crisp, every vowel precisely formed—but there was something fundamentally hollow about it. I wondered if all Synthezoids had that issue, or just him.
"Good afternoon. As you all know, there has been a lot of loose talk and speculation over the past several days about the disappearance of members of the Avengers, the Fantastic Four, and others," the Vision began. "There is no need for panic! Let me assure you, the Avengers will continue to function as Earth's mightiest peacekeeping force! There has been, and there will be, no lapse in leadership! I have personally assumed control!"
He went on to dismiss what he called "irresponsible people" who had suggested conspiracies, referring to rumors of alien invasion as "just rumors." When pressed about reports from West Virginia, he acknowledged awareness of them but stated no official threat had been substantiated. The Vision concluded by mentioning that National Security Council representatives were en route to New York for what he described as a "regularly scheduled Avengers briefing."
As I listened to the android's measured tones, something about his demeanor struck me as off. The Vision had always been logical and precise, but there was something almost... authoritarian about his tone that seemed different. Then again, I'd never paid that much attention to Vision in the comics - he'd always struck me as inconsistently written, so maybe this was just how he sounded when taking charge during a crisis.
The Vision wrapped up with "I can only reiterate that whatever the emergency, the Avengers stand ready!" He then thanked everyone for their time, and the local radio went back to the regularly scheduled programming.
I went back to work on the plasma rifle, carefully removing the focusing assembly while cross-referencing the manual's diagrams. The magnetic bottle technology was really interesting stuff. About an hour later, the radio caught my attention again as the sports reporter wrapped up the Yankees coverage.
"...and that puts the Yankees at 22-17 for the season, still trailing the Blue Jays in the AL East. Coming up after these messages, we'll have your weekend weather forecast and-"
The urgent beeping of a news bulletin cut through the broadcast.
"We interrupt this program with breaking news from Manhattan. Reports are coming in of a massive structure that has suddenly appeared in Central Park near the Sheep Meadow. Witnesses describe it as some kind of fortress or building that materialized out of nowhere approximately ten minutes ago. Police and emergency services are responding to the scene, and we're getting unconfirmed reports that several figures emerged from the structure, including what witnesses describe as costumed individuals consistent with the missing Avengers. We'll continue to follow this developing story..."
I dropped the plasma rifle component I'd been examining and stared in the direction of the radio down the hall.
The Beyonder had finally finished playing with his action figures and sent everyone home.
I'd had a week to recover from my initial forays into this world. My bruised ribs had healed enough that I could move without wincing, the shrapnel wounds were down to greyish scars, and I'd managed to absorb at least the basics from the fieldcraft manual. That recovery time was going to prove invaluable, because with the heavy hitters back on Earth, I would be living in interesting times