I stretched and cracked my back as the subway rattled back toward the warehouse. My mind kept circling back to the memory spell. That was the second piece of hard evidence I'd found confirming retcons were in play. First that newspaper with the Pride, now a documented magical alteration of global memory. Existential nightmares aside, it was good to know.
Back at the bunker after the subway ride, I took another look at the junction box I'd cracked open earlier in the week. The heavy cables disappearing into the wall still bothered me. Someone at ConEd had to have been on the Corporation's payroll to ignore this kind of direct tap into the city grid. I pulled out my notebook and underlined my earlier reminder: Look into potential ConEd bribes on bunker's power tap. That was going on this week's to-do list, right after I survived tomorrow's meeting with Reynolds. One minor task at a time.
I engaged in my evening work-out, ate some peanut butter that I had in the fridge, then made an early night of it. Big day tomorrow.
I woke up Wednesday morning at around 8 AM. I had some time before I had to head over to the restaurant for the 11 AM meeting with Reynolds, so I decided to use that time to review some material. Walking into the workshop, I picked up the copy of "Corporate Intelligence Gathering: A Practical Guide".
After reviewing the manual a bit (most of the manual was on OSINT, dumpster diving for info and just generally gathering information on a corporation from outside the building.) However, there was a brief chapter on body language,and I devoured it like a starving man.
I wasn't the best at reading body language, and I assumed someone like Reynolds (ex-army intelligence, working for an incredibly ruthless arms manufacturer) would have masterful control over his body language.
After an hour I set the manual down and rubbed my eyes. The chapter was dense, and I'd barely scratched the surface. The real problem was that I was trying to prepare for a chess match against someone who'd spent eight years in Army intelligence, and as a result, was better equipped for this type of thing than I'd be.
Still, knowing the theory helped. Even if I couldn't read Reynolds perfectly, I could at least avoid giving away too much myself. Keep my hands visible. Maintain open but neutral posture. Don't fidget. Control my breathing. Try not to give away anything he didn't need to know.
I checked my watch. 9:15 AM
No time like the present...
Throwing on my button-up shirt and my leather jacket, I took the elevator upstairs and started walking towards the subway station.
After another morning subway ride, I yawned as I walked up onto the street. Fifth Avenue was busy with the late-morning business crowd. Men in suits walking with purpose, secretaries on coffee runs, the occasional tourist looking lost.
I walked north. The Olympia Restaurant wasn't hard to spot. It had a green awning, gold lettering, the kind of understated elegance that screamed "expense account lunches." Through the windows I could see white tablecloths and waiters in black vests moving between tables.
I pushed through the door. The interior was nice. Dark wood paneling, brass fixtures, that particular smell of good coffee and something baking. The main dining room was about half full, mostly men in suits having quiet business conversations over Greek food.
A host in a black suit looked up from his podium with a decidedly neutral expression.
"Good morning, sir. Do you have a reservation?"
"I'm here to meet Lawrence Reynolds. He should have a room reserved."
The host glanced down at his book, then nodded. "Ah yes, Mr. Reynolds. He's in the back. Follow me, please."
He led me through the main dining room, past tables of businessmen cutting deals over moussaka and lamb chops, toward a hallway in the back. We passed the restrooms, then stopped at a wooden door marked "Private Dining."
The host knocked once, then opened the door. "Your guest, Mr. Reynolds."
He stepped aside to let me through, then closed the door behind me.
The room was small and well-appointed. The paneling was slightly lighter wood then the paneling in the rest of the restaurant, a round table with two chairs, good lighting from a brass fixture overhead. White tablecloth, water glasses already poured, no menus.
Two men were inside.
The first man sat at the table. White, wire-rimmed glasses, short hair with just hints of gray at the temples, wearing a sharp charcoal suit that screamed tailored rather than off-the-rack. Mid-thirties, maybe thirty-six or thirty-seven. Lean, composed, the kind of stillness that came from discipline rather than relaxation. He looked up as I entered, expression neutral and assessing.
Lawrence Reynolds, presumably.
But it was the second man who drew my attention immediately.
He stood to the left of the door, positioning that gave him clear lines to both the entrance and Reynolds. Six-two, maybe 220 pounds, Black, heavily muscled but lean. Wearing dark slacks and a jacket that didn't quite hide the bulk underneath. His posture was relaxed in that coiled way that made it clear he could move very, very fast if he needed to.
His eyes locked onto me the moment the door opened. Not hostile, but absolutely alert. Scanning, evaluating, categorizing threat level.
Before I could say anything, he extended one large hand, palm up.
"Any weapons, please." His voice was deep, measured, no aggression but no negotiation either. "Just policy."
I hesitated for a millisecond. Not much I can do anyways. "Can I reach inside my jacket?"
The man nodded.
I reached under my jacket and pulled out the needle pistol from its holster. I'd expected something like this, but walking into a meeting completely unarmed felt stupid.
I placed it in his hand carefully, grip first.
He took it with professional efficiency, his thumb immediately finding the chamber indicator, checking for a loaded flechette without looking away from me. He briefly glanced down to verify the safety was engaged, then stepped to a small side table near the door and set the pistol down. The movement put him squarely between me and my sidearm.
"Appreciate the cooperation," he said, stepping back to his position. Still watchful, but the tension dropped a fraction.
Reynolds spoke from the table, his voice controlled with a hint of the Midwest that I couldn't quite place. Ohio maybe, or Indiana. "Please, have a seat, Mr...?"
I moved to the chair. "Quince."
"I'm aware." Reynolds's smile was utterly inauthentic. "Your last name, please."
A small power play, establishing control of the conversation before we'd even started. I could refuse, but that would set a confrontational tone. Better to give him something, even if it was fake.
"Davis."
Reynolds's expression didn't change, but there was the briefest pause—maybe half a second—before he responded. Long enough that I knew he'd noticed the obvious pseudonym.
"Mr. Davis, then." Reynolds gestured to the empty seat, his tone perfectly neutral. No sarcasm, no challenge, just professional courtesy that made it very clear he was humoring me. "Thank you for meeting on short notice."
I sat down, very aware of the bodyguard's presence behind me and to the left. Not threatening, but definitely there.
I have no idea what Vito's told this guy. Best to let him lead and play everything close to my chest.
Reynolds continued
"You weren't slowed down coming to our meeting, I hope. The city's been upgrading quite a bit of infrastructure recently.. The engineering challenges alone..." He shook his head. "Water mains, power lines, telecommunications. All those systems layered on top of each other. One mistake and you're causing problems three blocks away."
I couldn't help the slight chuckle that escaped. "Always more complicated than the planners think."
"Always." Reynolds smiled. "Though I imagine some of those engineers are having the time of their lives. Complex systems, optimization problems." He paused, then shifted gears smoothly. "Speaking of which, I spent far too much time in the computer lab during my undergrad years. Economics degree, but I got sucked into this informal competition some of us had." He smiled slightly, like it was a fond memory. "We'd challenge each other to write the shortest possible program to solve some problem. Matrix multiplication, that sort of thing. Completely impractical, but addictive. You'd spend hours shaving off a few characters just to beat someone else's solution."
I felt myself getting pulled in. "Yeah, that's the kind of thing that eats your whole afternoon. You pare a program down to what you think is minimal, then someone finds a way to collapse two loops or reuse a variable and suddenly you're five characters shorter."
Shit.
The words had come out too naturally, too detailed. I'd gotten nerd sniped by the problem itself and started talking shop without thinking.
Idiot. You don't know what Vito told him about your background, and you just dropped that unprompted.
Reynolds's eyes sharpened with interest. Just for a moment, but I caught it. "Exactly." He leaned back slightly, casual. "You sound like you've spent some time at a terminal yourself."
I backpedaled slightly. "Dabbled a bit. Nothing serious."
"Hm." Reynolds nodded, his expression returning to its former neutrality. "Well, it's useful knowledge to have. The world's only getting more computerised."
I nodded, hoping he'd move on.
Reynolds adjusted his water glass, centering it precisely on the tablecloth. "I hope you don't mind, but lunch is on me. I took the liberty of ordering for both of us. The lamb here is exceptional. Perfect texture, never overcooked." He paused, looking at me with that same slight smile. "Can I interest you in anything from the wine menu? They have an excellent selection."
"I'm good with water, thanks."
"Suit yourself." Reynolds leaned back slightly in his chair. "Now then, Vito mentioned you had something that might interest us. What exactly-"
He stopped mid-sentence, leaning forwards. "Forgive me. Before we discuss business, there's one small matter." He glanced toward the bodyguard. "Mr. Washington, if you would."
Washington moved with that same economical efficiency, reaching into his jacket. When his hand came out, he was holding something that looked disturbingly like a weapon. It was sleek, metallic, and had what might have been an emitter array at the front.
He pointed it directly at me.
I tensed immediately, muscles coiling to move, calculate distances, assess options-
"Relax, Mr. Davis." Reynolds's voice was calm, almost amused. "I'm not going to kill you."
My heart was still hammering. Washington hadn't lowered the device.
Reynolds leaned back slightly in his chair, watching my reaction with the mild fascination of a lepidopterist examining a particularly interesting butterfly. "Strange times we're living in, wouldn't you say? Ever since that Dire Wraith situation came to light." He paused, letting that sink in. "There was that whole mess in West Virginia. It made the regional news, though the government's done a good job making it look like hysteria. Most people think it's nonsense." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "But the people who matter know better."
Shit.
The Dire Wraith thing had slipped my mind, mainly because I hadn't really read ROM or paid attention to those titles. As soon as I'd seen the reference to Godzilla during my first visit to the library, I should have realized that licensing issues clearly weren't stopping anything in Earth-616. If Godzilla was real here, ROM and the Dire Wraiths probably were too.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. We're fucking up everything today, evidently...
"It's been a busy time for me." I said lamely, breaking out of my internal recriminations.
Reynolds arched an eyebrow, that faint smile never quite reaching his eyes. "I'm sure it has."
Washington held the device steady, his expression professionally neutral as he swept it over me from head to toe. Some kind of scanner. Not a weapon. Probably.
The emitter array hummed faintly as it passed over my chest, then my head. Washington's eyes stayed locked on what I surmised was a LED on the device.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably only fifteen seconds, Washington lowered the scanner. "Clean," he said simply, stepping back to his position by the door.
"Good." Reynolds's smile warmed by perhaps half a degree. Still professional, still controlled, but with a hint of genuine satisfaction. "Glad to see the analyzer actually works. We risked burning an asset to get the technical specs from SHIELD's analysis of ROM's device."
I kept my expression neutral and said nothing, but mentally filed the factoid away.
Interesting to see that they still have some degree of penetration into SHIELD after they swiped the Mandroid designs. You'd think SHIELD counterintel would be all over that. Then again, who hasn't penetrated SHIELD at this point? Pretty sure the whole Deltite thing should happen in a bit...
I didn't envy SHIELD's counterintelligence office. That had to be the worst job in espionage. One must imagine Sisyphus happy...
Reynolds rolled his shoulders, the tension in the room dropping a fraction. "Now we can get to business. If you'd do the honors."
I gently placed the case on the table and opened it, revealing the prototype rail pistol.
Reynolds leaned in, his eyes sharp behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Interesting."
He didn't touch it at all, seeming content to soak it in. "We lost this prototype a few years back. Someone broke into our West Coast facility and grabbed it, along with a few other items."
His gaze flicked up to meet mine. "I assume you'd know nothing about the perpetrators, Mr. Davis?"
This guy...
I shrugged. "I found this second-hand."
"Mmm." Reynolds sat back slightly, fingers steepled. "We had our suspicions about who was behind that particular acquisition. Let's just say they were on the criminal side of things." He smiled faintly. "Past tense being the operative word. The organization in question experienced significant structural failures in '79." He smirked briefly.
"Structural failures in '79." If that's what he wanted to call the Hulk tearing down their West Coast skyscraper, who was I to stop him?
"How...unfortunate for them," I said carefully.
"Very." Reynolds's tone was perfectly neutral, but I would swear until the day I died, he sounded vaguely amused. "Though it does create opportunities in the secondary market. Assets tend to surface after these organisations collapse." He looked at me steadily.
I'd already slipped up once, not giving him anything else.
"That would be a reasonable assumption," I said calmly.
Let him fill in the gaps himself.
Reynolds nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied. "Good. I appreciate clarity." He gestured to the case. "I'll need to take this back to our facility for inspection. Standard procedure. Verify authenticity, check for tampering, make sure all the components are original. Once that's done, I'll get back to you with your compensation."
Not great, but I didn't have better options. I'd already let AIM take first crack at it. I probably could have sold it to them outright and gotten paid up front, but the DRC had actually lost this specific prototype, and would probably pay me more anyways, even if I had to wait.
"Sounds fine," I said.
A tap on the door, and the waiter entered with a tray—two plates, each with lamb chops glistening with olive oil and herbs, roasted lemon potatoes, and what looked like grilled vegetables. Reynolds had taken the presumption of ordering for both of us without asking. I had to admit, it was excellent. The lamb was perfectly seasoned with oregano and garlic, tender without being overdone, and not too gamey. He hadn't been exaggerating about the quality.
We finished the meal in relative quiet. Reynolds made occasional small talk, comments about the restaurant, the weather, his neighbors, the Mets' dismal season.The business portion of our meeting was clearly over.
When the waiter returned and cleared our plates, Reynolds checked his watch and stood. "Well, Mr. Davis, this has been productive. I should get back to the office."
Washington moved smoothly to pick up the case containing the rail pistol. Reynolds straightened his jacket, looking satisfied. "Good meal, clean transaction."
I raised an eyebrow. "These restaurant meetings go sideways often?"
A brief smirk flashed across Reynolds's face. "You'd be surprised." He extended his hand, and I shook it. "I'll be in touch over the weekend. I'll leave word with Vito once our people have verified everything, and I'll compensate you then."
"Pleasure doing business," I said.
"Likewise." Reynolds stepped out into the hallway, Washington following close behind with the case.
Only after Reynolds had moved down the corridor and out of sight did Washington turn back, retrieving my needle pistol from the side table. He checked it with the same professional efficiency he'd shown earlier, then held it out to me grip-first. I took it and holstered it quickly. He gave a brief nod, then briskly exited the room.
I sat back down for a moment, processing everything that had just happened.
Well. That went... better than it could have, even if I'd fucked up twice. Reynolds knew a little more about me than I wanted him to, and I'd been completely blindsided by the existence of Dire Wraiths. Not great.
But I'd walked away with a deal in place and, in a first for one of these meetings, I hadn't been shot at.
Swings and roundabouts.