I sharply gathered myself. Time to start the next job, I thought. You always knew they were coming back. With this in mind, I walked to the armory, threw on my "outside clothes": jeans and a button-down shirt, then strapped on my shoulder holster with the needle pistol. I grabbed my only leather jacket, still bearing scuff marks from the firefight a week back, and shrugged it on to conceal the weapon. Some "walking-around cash," about two hundred dollars in twenties, went into my front pocket before I headed to the elevator, stabbing the call button with more force than necessary.
I strode out of the warehouse into the afternoon light. Que sera sera. The heroes coming back was almost a relief, in a perverse way. At least now I knew the stakes. The pressure was on, sure, but I'd always performed better under pressure anyway.
While walking to the payphone, I caught sight of my second superhero since arriving in this timeline: Daredevil swung past on his billy club line, a red blur against the Manhattan skyline. Fuck me, it slipped my mind that Hell's Kitchen was his territory. That was going to complicate future operations. With all the heroes back from wherever the hell they'd disappeared to during Secret Wars, Daredevil wasn't going to be stretched so thinly.
I stepped into the payphone booth, fed in some coins, and dialed Vito's number. He picked up after five rings, his voice carrying an edge I hadn't heard before.
"Who's this?"
Interesting.
"Hey Vito, it's Quince. I'm ready for that job."
From what I'd seen of Vito so far, he was usually ice-cold even under pressure, but I could catch a hint of strain in his tone. "Yeah, okay. Circumstances are a bit in flux,but I'll give you her number."
After Vito read off the mystery woman's number, he hung up without so much as a goodbye.
Well that's out of character, I thought. Vito was definitely more curt than usual. I figured he had a dozen balls in the air trying to adjust to the return of the heroes.
Glad I'm not in his shoes.
I dialed her number. After a few rings, a woman with a distinctive British accent answered. "Hello?"
I cleared my throat. "Good afternoon. This is Quince. Vito recommended me to you."
"Excellent. Come to this address, and we'll get started."
She rattled off an address on East 42nd Street near Third Avenue. I repeated it back to confirm, but she'd already hung up.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged from Grand Central and walked the few blocks to the address. The neighborhood was a classic Midtown business district: mid-rise office buildings from the 1960s and 70s mixed with older commercial structures. The building she'd directed me to was a twelve-story glass and concrete structure with a small lobby and the kind of anonymous corporate tenants you'd find throughout Manhattan.
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
Turning around, I saw a white woman who appeared to be in her mid-thirties. She extended her hand with practiced confidence. "Quince, I presume?"
"That's me." I nodded and reached out to shake her hand.
The thing that immediately jumped out at me was her height. I'm around six feet even in socks, and she was eye-to-eye with me despite wearing sensible flats. Her grip was firm, but what caught my attention were her hands: definitely callused, particularly along the knuckles and fingertips. Interesting detail for someone who otherwise screamed upper-class professional. Then there was her smile. It was polite and professional, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Something about that disconnect made the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
She wore a loosely fitted dark green pantsuit that looked expensive but understated, the kind of outfit that wouldn't draw a second glance in any corporate environment.
"Excellent. I'm Ava Smith. If you'd follow me."
Ava strode forward, producing a set of keys from her coat pocket and unlocking the glass doors of the building. The lobby was eerily quiet, but not empty: magazines were scattered across coffee tables, and a reception desk still had papers spread across its surface as if someone had just stepped away.
We headed for the elevators, and as we rode up to the fifth floor, I began to notice just how recently this place had been emptied. Coffee mugs still sat on desks. A PC hummed quietly in one cubicle. As we walked past a desk, I surreptitiously dipped my finger in a coffee mug to test a theory. Still lukewarm. This building had been emptied very recently. I subtly wiped my hand on my jeans.
We arrived at a conference room, and the woman gestured inwards. A whiteboard still showed yesterday's meeting notes in blue marker. There was also a nondescript manila folder and a copy of TIME magazine.
"Nice building," I said, planting myself into one of the chairs around the conference table. "Why is it empty?"
Her expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Calculation, maybe assessment. "One of my contacts faked a gas leak. We should have the run of the building for the afternoon."
Well that was a power play if I'd ever seen one.
Ava opened the folder that had been laying on the table. "I have a few quick technical questions for you. What does a resistor do?"
I stretched. "A resistor implements resistance as a circuit element to reduce current flow."
She nodded, making a small check mark. "Describe how a CPU works."
Hope I keep this period-accurate. Would be awkward to have to explain what branch prediction is.
"Modern processors are based off the Von Neumann architecture. You have the ALU which performs arithmetic and logical operations, registers,an area of high speed memory that supplies data to the ALU and stores the results of operations. You have your program counter,your stack pointer and your instruction registers with the registers as well. Finally you have a control unit which controls the fetch/decode/execute cycle."
She made another check mark. "What's the Big-O lookup time of a hash table?"
"It's O(1) on average because a hash table uses unique keys. Worst case is O(n) assuming everything's mapped to the same bucket."
"Excellent." She put down her folder and seemed to relax slightly. "One of our technical specialists gave me that list. I barely knew if any of it was the Queen's English." She paused. "Glad someone can understand it."
Huh, looks like she's relaxing.
I nodded. "Is there any other component to this assessment?"
"Just a couple more questions," Ava said, reaching across the table to pick up the abandoned Time magazine. She began absently rolling it tighter. "Tell me, what's your experience with firearms?"
I relaxed further into my chair. "I can hit moving targets, nothing too fancy."
"And fisticuffs?" She continued rolling the magazine.
"I've dabbled a bi..."
Ava exploded into motion across the table like a striking snake, catching me utterly flatfooted. My mouth instinctively opened in shock, and she jammed the magazine down my throat before I could even process what was happening. In that split second, I saw her eyes. Empty. Like looking into a mask with nothing behind it.
"Situational awareness is key." Ava stated flatly, maintaining her grip on the magazine as I gagged around the rolled paper.
I couldn't breathe. Panic flooded my system as the magazine blocked my airway, and I clawed desperately at her wrist. The fieldcraft manual's lessons kicked in through the haze of panic. When you're ambushed, change the game.
Instead of trying to overpower her grip, I grabbed the conference table itself and threw my full weight against it, flipping the entire surface toward her. She had to choose between maintaining her attack and keeping her balance. She chose balance, releasing the magazine to catch herself.
I spat out the soggy magazine and scrambled to my feet, gasping and nauseous.
"You adapted instead of panicking. Good." She moved around the overturned table with the same clinical efficiency she might use to step over debris. "Now let's see how you handle a more conventional approach."
I groaned. She had shifted into what was unmistakably a combat stance. Right now I was slightly winded and more than a little nauseous. She had training, reach, and positioning on me.
She shuffled forward, closing distance. Ava feinted left, then moved sideways, forcing me to turn to keep facing her.
This is bad. Maybe I can-
My train of thought was abruptly derailed as Ava's left leg flashed out, catching me square in the ribs on my left side, driving the air out of my lungs and sending me stumbling sideways.
"Never let your mind wander during a fight, Quince." Her tone was utterly matter-of-fact. "You'd be in worse shape if I'd aimed for your right side instead." She might as well have been discussing the weather, not the ribs she'd just driven her boot into.
I stared at her through watering eyes, still trying to catch my breath. She knew exactly where my injuries had been.
"You've been observing me since we met," I wheezed.
She nodded. "You've been favoring your right side since we started walking through the building. Subtle, but noticeable if you know what to look for."
I straightened up slowly, testing the fresh ache in my ribs. "And the point of this was?"
"To see if you're worth the investment," she said simply. "You've passed." She extended her hand. "Fighting skills can be taught, Quince. Technical knowledge like yours cannot, at least not easily."
I grabbed her hand cautiously, still catching my breath. "What do you mean?"
Ava leaned against the wall. "How familiar are you with psychic phenomena?"
I shrugged. "Not much. I just know they exist."
"Think of it like this: your brain processes different types of information in different ways. Factual knowledge - names, dates, procedures - that's stored in your conscious memory systems. Easier to access telepathically, but also easier to forget. Physical skills are different - they're encoded in your motor cortex and cerebellum as neural pathways. That's deeper, harder to reach, but once it's there it sticks better."
She paused. "The quality depends on the telepath's skill level and neural compatibility. High-level psychics like Betsy Braddock - they're not just powerful, they're versatile. They can access different brain systems and execute most techniques well. Lower-tier psychics are more limited in which brain systems they can reach effectively."
"What kind of skills are we talking about?"
"Motor skills. Martial arts, lockpicking, weapons handling."
I frowned. "Sounds too good to be true. What's the catch?"
"Several catches. First, implanted skills feel artificial. You'll know what to do but you aren't going to have experience. Real experience teaches judgment. Second, the skills degrade faster than something you've learned conventionally if you don't practice. Third, neural compatibility - some people's brain architecture just doesn't take to certain types of implantation well. And fourth, security concerns. The psychic doing the implantation can potentially access other information while they're in your head."
"But you're suggesting it anyway."
"Because in our current situation, the benefits outweigh the risks. I can get you combat-ready in 2 hours instead of months." She straightened up. "Marcus isn't a high-end psychic, but he's focused his abilities on one thing and gotten very good at it. Most telepaths work better with abstract knowledge. Marcus is the opposite - he struggles with conceptual understanding, but he's exceptional with physical skills. Muscle memory, reflexes, motor patterns: he can implant those perfectly."
She studied my face carefully. "That's exactly why I wanted a technical specialist with some rudimentary combat experience rather than a pure soldier. Marcus can upgrade your fighting skills, but I still need someone who understands the technology we're chasing."
She paused, seeming to come to a decision. "Vito probably kept things vague, but you should know who you're working for. I work for Vixen's organization. What have you heard about us?"
Fuck. This was touchy. I didn't know what I was supposed to know as a 616 native, and I didn't want to show my hand on meta knowledge.
I shrugged."I don't know much. The whole Jaspers mess must have disrupted your operations though."
Ava's expression shifted. "Vixen managed something unprecedented: a complete infiltration and takeover of S.T.R.I.K.E. from the inside." There was something in her tone. It wasn't pride, but close. Satisfaction, maybe. "As far as I'm aware, no other criminal organization has ever so thoroughly subverted an intelligence agency."
She paused, and I caught the faintest hint of frustration in her carefully controlled expression. "Things were going smoothly until Jaspers had us use S.T.R.I.K.E. to start rounding up superhumans."
Something flashed across her face, so brief I almost missed it. Huh. "When Jaspers started warping reality itself, even Vixen realized things had gone too far. He was killed, normalcy was restored, and S.T.R.I.K.E was disbanded by the British government in the aftermath"
She leaned forward slightly. "The British government has managed domestic asset recovery well enough. Easy to check safe houses when they're on your own soil. But overseas operations? That's where it gets messy. The central database was destroyed, so nobody has a complete inventory of foreign assets. And the agencies meant to handle this..." She ticked them off on her fingers. "R.C.X. is brand new and focused on their Warpies mandate, Home Office and Foreign Office are still arguing in committee about W.H.O. 's mandate and which ministry should control it,and F.I.6 is still being squabbled over in the Ministry of Defense. They're too busy fighting over jurisdictional boundaries to coordinate proper asset recovery. Creates opportunities for those of us who know what we're looking for."
I cleared my throat. "This is all very interesting, but where do my technical skills come in?"
Ava's jaw tightened. "We don't have a complete map of all stateside S.T.R.I.K.E. assets because the central registry was destroyed during an incident at headquarters during our infiltration. But S.T.R.I.K.E. was paranoid about operational security. They maintained backup databases at various facilities."
She leaned forward slightly. "There's a S.T.R.I.K.E. safe house in New Jersey. On the surface, it looks like a regular residential property, but there's a hidden door that leads to a secure room. That room has a computerized lock: military-grade encryption, bio-metric backup, the works. Behind that lock is a database terminal with a complete list of S.T.R.I.K.E 's tri-state area assets: safe houses, equipment caches, personnel records, operational intelligence."
"So you need someone to crack the lock and dump the database" I said.
"Exactly. The physical files at headquarters were destroyed, and the central computerized system was wiped. But the backup databases at individual facilities?" She paused. "Those were overlooked in the chaos. If we can access that terminal, we get everything. The British government is still scrambling to reorganize. I want to get there first."
She lifted herself off the wall. "First things first though, let's get you to that psychic. We've dallied long enough. I don't want to be here when FDNY shows up."
"Right." I nodded.
As I followed her outside the building, I started arguing with myself internally again.
Are you INSANE? Part of me insisted. Going to a psychic could blow your whole story! And this woman-Christ, she's impossible to read. One second relaxed, the next jamming magazines down your throat. Vito wasn't kidding. You have NO idea what she's really thinking.
Another part of me pushed back. If this works, you get combat skills in hours instead of months. The Stane job needs every edge you can get. Yeah, you can't read her-but if she wanted you dead, you'd already be dead.
My train of thought was derailed by Ava clearing her throat. "Since you don't have a car, we'll take mine."
She gestured towards what I thought was a red third-generation Camaro.
I raised an eyebrow. "Bit flashy if you're trying to be covert."
Ava smirked. "One of the perks of the job. Besides, my cover is a British businesswoman on an extended work trip. Renting something... authentically American fits the profile. People see what they expect to see." There was a hint of amusement in her tone, like she found the whole muscle car aesthetic charmingly unrefined.
Huh, so she does have emotions...
We'd started in Midtown's business district, all glass towers and gridlocked traffic, then crossed the Queensboro Bridge with its iron lattice framework overhead. The cityscape shifted as we drove east, until finally we were in Hollis, around 99th and 197th. The Camaro's engine rumbled through quiet suburban blocks lined with modest two-story homes. Cars from the late seventies and early eighties sat parked along the curb.
I turned to Ava as we walked up the sidewalk. "Vito seems to know about everything going on in NYC. How does he not know about skill-granting psychics?"
Ava answered. "First off, psychics are rare, and psychics who I'd personally trust are rarer. NYC has one of the highest concentrations of superhumans on the planet and there's still only one psychic I'd trust to pull something like this off." She paused,looking around at the addresses of the surrounding homes. "Secondly, it's above his paygrade."
"So how do you know Marcus?"
"I've been around." Her tone made it clear that was all she was offering. "Marcus doesn't advertise his services. He keeps a very low profile, doesn't work with American organized crime, doesn't get involved in anything that draws federal attention. The less you know about how I found him, the safer it is for everyone involved."
We came to a stop in front of a modest two-story home with a small front porch and a chain-link fence. Nothing about it stood out from the neighboring houses.
I blinked. "He works out of his house?"
Ava shrugged. "He tends to prefer comfortable, familiar environments. Makes the whole process easier for him." She rang the doorbell.
After a moment, footsteps shuffled toward the door. It swung open to reveal a mid-twenties Black man with a substantial afro, wearing a fluffy blue bathrobe and bunny slippers.
"Hey Ava." He smiled warmly. "Nice to see you stateside again." He extended his hand toward me. "Marcus Washington."
I shook it, noting his grip was firm but relaxed. "Just Quince, man."
Marcus stretched, his back popping audibly. "Assuming you're here for the workup. Ava mentioned she'd be bringing someone by." He gestured us inside, and I found myself in a surprisingly normal living room: a worn couch, a coffee table covered in psychology textbooks and novels and a few paintings.
"How much is this going to run me?" I asked.
Marcus scratched his head thoughtfully. "My standard rates for the combat package run around twenty thousand."
I struggled to keep my jaw from dropping.
Ava interjected smoothly. "We've already worked out an arrangement, Marcus. I'm covering his session with some of what I brought you last month."
Marcus nodded. "Right, right. You've got plenty of credit built up." He turned to me. "Ava's been a good client. Brings me quality material to work with."
Well that's interesting. I filed that away mentally.
"Now that we've sorted that out," Marcus said, gesturing toward the couch, "if you'd just lay down for me, we can get started."
I nodded, settling onto the worn cushions. "Will I be conscious for the skill insertion? What'll it feel like?"
Marcus pulled up a chair beside the couch. "I'm going to put you under for the insertion. It's easier for me to navigate when you're not consciously interfering." He picked up what looked like a small penlight. "You'll feel a slight pressure, like someone's pressing on your forehead, and then you'll just drift off."
"How long does it take?"
"About two hours for a full combat package. I'll be pulling from multiple sources, giving you a composite skillset rather than copying one person's style." He settled back in his chair. "Just relax and let it happen."
I laid down on the couch.
I woke up with a start, my neck stiff from the awkward angle I'd been lying at. Marcus was slumped in his chair across from me, looking thoroughly drained. He was working his way through a protein bar and taking regular sips from a Gatorade bottle.
"Welcome back," he said, his voice noticeably more tired. "I put you under after I finished the integration. It takes a lot out of you the first time. Your brain needs to process and organize all the new motor pathways." He took another long drink. "Takes a lot out of me too."
Ava pulled herself up from a nearby chair where she'd been sitting with her eyes closed, hands resting loosely on the armrests in what looked like a meditation pose. Her posture shifted from relaxed stillness to alert readiness in a smooth, practiced motion. "Let's test your new skills."
Marcus quickly threw his hand up. "Hold up, let's not do that Enter the Dragon shit in here. Move it to my backyard. I had to replace the drywall last time someone got too enthusiastic."
Ava shrugged. "Fair enough." She walked towards the rear of the house,and I heard a door open and shut.
Marcus caught my arm as I stood up. "Brother, I don't try to pry," he said quietly, "but while I was in your head, I noticed something."
I tensed immediately.
Marcus raised both hands. "Relax, man. I wasn't poking around. That's not how I work. But when you're navigating someone's mind to implant motor patterns, you catch... resonances. Like echoes." He glanced toward where Ava had exited the house. "Most people have the usual stuff: family memories, good times. You do too. However, you've got this really strong resonance around the name Quinton. Much stronger than the other stuff, oddly enough."
He released my arm. "I'm not asking why, and I didn't dig into it. Just want you to know that it's sitting there like a neon sign in your psyche. A more malicious psychic could pluck what I'm guessing is your real name right out without much effort."
I looked at him dubiously. "And I'm just supposed to trust you didn't pry into anything else?"
"My whole business model depends on people trusting I keep my mind probes out of where they shouldn't be and my mouth shut." Marcus said.
I exhaled slowly. "Fair enough. Thanks for the heads up."
"No problem." Marcus straightened up, then grabbed a notepad from the coffee table and scribbled down a number. "Look, I get it. Everyone in this business has shit they need to keep buried. If you want to work on compartmentalizing that better, I know a monk who teaches mental discipline techniques. Meditation, mental partitioning, that kind of thing. Not psychic himself, but he's helped a few of my clients build better defenses." He tore off the paper and handed it to me. "Just mention my name if you call."
Folding the paper up and sticking it in my jeans pocket, I walked out to the backyard.
The yard had a wooden fence, a weather-beaten bench, and a well-loved swing set. Near the back door, a tree extended a thick branch overhead, creating a natural canopy over the entrance. Another tree stood in the far corner. It was like hundreds of other backyards in Queens.
However, Ava was nowhere to be found.
"Ava?" I queried, walking out to the middle of the yard.
I heard the crunch of grass and pivoted just in time to see Ava sprinting at me. Where the fuck WAS she hiding? Without even consciously thinking about it, I dropped into a combat stance. It felt completely familiar, but I knew that I had never taken that stance before.
Ava smoothly leapt off the ground, transitioning her shoulder charge into a flying knee. I swayed to the side, the movement flowing naturally despite having never done it before. Her knee passed inches from my head. As Ava landed behind me, I reflexively pivoted and threw a quick jab at her head. She slipped it easily, my fist whistling by.
The sheer weirdness of it hit me as we circled each other. My body knew exactly how to move, where to place my feet, how to shift my weight, but I had never done it before.
Ava came at me again with a quick jab-cross combination. I slipped the jab and caught her cross on my forearm, the impact jarring despite the block. I fired back with a knee strike to her midsection, but she stopped it cold with a stiff arm to my chest. The exchange lasted maybe three seconds, but left me breathing harder.
I threw a roundhouse kick at her ribs. She stepped into it, catching my shin against her forearm while simultaneously throwing an uppercut that I barely dodged away from. As my foot touched down, she grabbed my shoulders and tried to pull me into a knee strike. I twisted out of her arms and shuffled back.
"Interesting," I panted.
She didn't answer, instead pressing forward. A quick jab snapped toward my face and I slipped it by inches. Immediately she followed with a hook aimed at my temple. I got my forearm up to block, but the impact still rattled me. Before I could reset, she threw a straight right that clipped my jaw, then dropped her level and shot in for a double-leg take down.
I caught her take down with a sprawl, my hips shooting back automatically as my weight dropped onto her shoulders. As she tried to adjust her grip and complete the take down, I threw an elbow at her head. She ducked under it and came up with a brutal body shot that drove the air from my lungs.
The implanted skills were keeping me in the fight, but I could feel my conditioning failing, especially after taking that punch. Ava, meanwhile, seemed barely winded.
Frustrated, I made a desperate decision. My hand went for the needle pistol holstered under my jacket. The draw was absolutely perfect. Despite my exhaustion, despite fumbling the draw every previous time, I did it perfectly. Thumb releasing the retention strap, fingers finding the grip exactly right, the gun beginning to clear leather in one smooth motion.
But I never got to complete the draw.
Before I could fully point the gun, Ava was closing the distance. I caught a metallic glint in her right hand as she closed.
Screwed by the 21 foot rule. Oh well.
Whatever it was jabbed into my neck, and suddenly my nervous system exploded in confusion. Every muscle in my body seized simultaneously, and I collapsed, the half-drawn pistol falling from nerveless fingers.
"Jazzler," Ava said matter-of-factly, holding up a device the size of a thick pen. "One of S.T.R.I.K.E's fun little gadgets. Temporarily scrambles electrical signals between your brain and muscles."
I tried to speak but could only manage an incoherent burble.
"The implanted skills will do," she continued, crouching beside me as the paralysis began to fade. "Even exhausted and outmatched, your muscle memory executed perfectly."
Sensation gradually returned to my limbs. I struggled to sit up.
"You'll do, Quince," Ava said, extending a hand to help me up. There was something almost approving in her tone. Not warm exactly, but less clinical than before.
Well, that's progress