I walked into the warehouse, still thinking about the meeting. I shook my head to clear it. That was the past. I couldn't afford to dwell on dubious government types, I had things to do. Namely, setting up a heist. I didn't waste time messing around with the splice, since I wouldn't need it. I walked up the staircase to the upstairs office section of the warehouse.
My notepad was still near the terminal I had lugged upstairs. Grabbing it, I wrote down both numbers that Catherine had given me. I then scooped up the notepad, and made my way back down the stairs, out the door, and to the payphone.
I dialed the first number, the one that belonged to the "effective but odd" individual. After the phone rang and rang, nobody answered for five minutes. Lovely. Just amazing. I'd try again later today. I might have a better chance of someone picking up then.
After that excellent start, I dialed the second number, consulting the notepad to make sure I was correct. Someone answered on the first ring.
"Hello?"
A man's voice, he sounded slightly bleary.
"Afternoon."
"This some telemarketer shit?"
Great. The guy hadn't been expecting callers,and seemed tired and pissy. I was probably going to go 2 for 2 on these leads being busts. I mentally adjusted my expectations downwards, and bit back a wave of frustration.
"Calling about some work, if you're interested."
The man seemed to perk up. "Who gave you this number?"
"Ava did."
The man's voice perked up. "Gotcha, so you aren't wasting my time. What type of work?"
I hedged. "I think it's better to pitch this to you in person."
"Fair enough. We'll meet in Harlem, at Famous Fish Market, around quarter to five."
With that, the line clicked dead.
That was an interesting turnaround. Figuring I didn't have any better leads to chase for this, and if it came to the worst I was armed, I decided to start making my way to Harlem.
One jolting subway ride later, I was outside Famous Fish Market, digging into a fish sandwich. Harlem in this era was something I'd mostly made my peace with. The neighborhood looked different, felt different, and I'd gotten used to that particular low-grade sense of dislocation. What caught me off guard was the restaurant itself. I'd eaten at Famous Fish Market before, in my own time. Being here now, well before I was born, was a different kind of strange.
"You the one who called about work?"
I turned. The man standing behind me was Black, maybe early thirties, with a military bearing that showed in his posture. He wore dark jeans, work boots that had seen some use, and a black jacket over a plain burgundy polo shirt. He was very clearly sizing me up.
"Depends," I said. "You answering calls about work?"
The man shrugged. "Why don't we walk and talk? I'll go in and grab something, and we'll head over to St. Nicholas Park. Talking there is better."
After a brief walk during which we talked about nothing in particular (namely the season the Knicks were having, which wasn't great. Some things were constant across the multiverse.), we arrived at St. Nicholas Park. We found a bench with decent sightlines, far enough from the playground that conversations wouldn't carry.
"So, what's the job?"
I decided on a similar blunt approach.
"I'm taking some drives out of a defense facility."
The man didn't react visibly. Just kept eating his fish sandwich, chewing thoughtfully. After a moment, he swallowed.
"Defense facility. That's awful vague." A pause. "What kind of defense facility?"
I weighed my options. Catherine had vouched for him, which meant something. She'd kept me alive when she could have just as easily let me die in that warehouse. Her tradecraft was solid, even if her judgment in employers was questionable. If she said this guy was reliable, I could probably trust that assessment.
Besides, if I wanted actual help, I needed to give actual information. Vague pitches got vague commitments, and I needed someone who knew what they were doing.
"Stane International. Long Island facility."
The man stopped mid-bite. He set his sandwich down carefully on the wrapper.
"Challenging place to get into. Going to be quite a thing to get out with all those drives." He wiped his hands on the wrapper, then extended one. "Name my father gave me is Amos. People call me Stack."
I shook his hand. "Quince."
"Quince," Stack repeated, like he was testing the weight of it. "Alright. You got a plan?"
"I have a plan. You'll be read into it if you decide to take the job."
Stack paused briefly, looking at two children shrieking and chasing each other around the swings.
"Fair enough. Times are...interesting. I'm in."
What?
"What!" My outburst mirrored my thoughts.
Stack looked at me, slightly quizzically. The children briefly turned to look at us as well, and deciding we weren't of interest, got back to the pressing business of chasing each other around and yelling.
"You holler loud enough to wake the dead normally?"
I lowered my voice and continued
"I'm shocked you agreed to this, sight unseen."
Stack shrugged. "Lemme lay it out for you. You got referred to me by that tall British chick, Ava right? She's connected to some Brit outfit. Ice queen, but I know she's competent as fuck. She doesn't suffer fools, so I know you aren't fucking around." He raised a second finger. "Number two, my current employment.. You know Boss Morgan?"
I shrugged. "Know of him."
Stack's expression soured. "Balding, lardass motherfucker. Never liked me since I was too tight with the old set. Keep me around, sure. But trust ? "
Stack snorted.
I must have looked confused, because Stack clarified.
"Stoneface's people."
That rang a bell. Stoneface had been the previous crime boss of Harlem before Morgan took over. Captain America and Spider-Man had taken him down, if my memory was correct.
"Morgan took over after Stoneface got exiled to Nigeria," Stack continued. "Kept some of us around because we were useful, but there's always been that... tension. He knows where my loyalties used to be."
He looked out over the park, and the conversation stalled.
I cleared my throat, changing the subject. "You know a good barber around here?"
Stack's expression shifted, some of the tension easing. "Yeah, actually. Will's, over on 145th. Tell him Stack sent you, he'll treat you right."
"Appreciate it."
"So," Stack said, "when do I get briefed on the actual plan?"
"I'll call you. Give me a few days to coordinate some things."
Stack nodded. "Fair enough. But we need to talk compensation, before we get any further"
"What are you thinking?"
"Six percent of whatever you get for selling what you're after."
I raised an eyebrow. "That seems generous."
Stack smirked slightly. "You look like a scholarly brother, but I don't think you're planning to use all that data yourself. You're flipping that shit to someone."
He shrugged. "It'll be worth a lot. Six percent of a lot is still a lot more than whatever flat rate you couldpay me. No offense, but you don't look that loaded."
That was a reasonably adequate understanding of my situation..
"Alright," I said. "Six percent."
Stack extended his hand again. We shook on it.
Exiting Will's, I saw it was the evening, around 5. It was nice getting my hair back under control. I had started to look pretty unkempt for a bit, and combing and picking was only doing so much. A proper fade just felt better.
I made my way back to the subway, and after another relatively incident-free ride,(bar my aching shoulder) I was back in Hell's Kitchen. Impulsively, I decided to try the payphone again.
The street was busy in the evening. A corner store was doing brisk business, customers flowing in and out. Two deliverymen were unloading a delivery truck in front of one of the storefronts. A group of kids were playing stickball further down the block, their shouts echoing off the buildings.
Someone had propped open the door to one of the apartment buildings, trying to catch the last of the day's cooler air.
I walked past a flight attendant with a roll-away suitcase squinting at a street map. White woman, brunette, average height. The uniform wasn't one I recognized, but it had the old Pan-Am look to it. The current Pan-Am look, really due to the current time period.
"Excuse me? I'm looking for-"
I held up a hand. "Sorry, I need to make a call first."
I stepped into the booth and dialed the same number I had tried before. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. I rubbed my still twinging shoulder subconsciously. After three minutes I gave up. Nobody home, disconnected, or just not picking up.
I hung up, frustration building.
Stepping out of the booth, I nearly walked into the stewardess from earlier. She'd drifted closer while I was on the phone, that same mildly helpless expression on her face.
"Sorry to bother you again," slightly nasally accent, probably Midwestern, apologetic smile. "I'm still trying to find-"
"Yeah?" I was tired, my shoulder hurt, and I had exactly zero patience left for playing tour guide to a lost flight attendant.
She tucked the map under her arm. When she spoke again the Midwestern accent was just gone, like she'd set it down somewhere.
"Do you get hurt often?" You were cradling that shoulder when you were on the phone."
I froze.
My shoulder. The one Black Lotus had dislocated earlier today. Catherine had popped it back in, but it was still sore as hell. I had been rubbing it when I was on the phone
If this woman was a flight attendant, I'd eat my hat.
"How-" I started, then caught myself.
She smiled slightly.
"Where'd you get that number?" She nodded toward the payphone.
My mind raced. This was either a threat or this was Catherine's contact. Given that she'd asked about the number rather than pulling a weapon, probably the latter. Probably.
"Ava referred me," I said cautiously.
Her expression shifted again to something more vaguely approving. "Excellent. Let's get to business."
I glanced around. The street was still busy with evening foot traffic. A couple walked past us, the deliverymen still unloading their truck.
"In the street?" I raised an eyebrow. "I'd like to discuss this offer in private if possible."
"There's a place two blocks over," the mystery woman said. "Open late, and the staff don't pay attention. We can talk there."
After a brisk walk of two blocks, we came across a careworn diner. It had seen better days, but it was a reprieve from the afternoon heat and mostly empty at this hour. The woman slid into a back booth, and I slid into the bench across from her.
"So, how do you know Ava?"
She smiled slightly. "We worked together on something while she was stateside." No elaboration. Just enough to confirm the connection without giving details.
I decided not to push it. "What should I call you?"
"Angela." She said it naturally, but she was a very talented actor.
"Alright, Angela. I need help with a job. Data exfiltration from a defense facility."
Her expression sharpened with interest. "Which facility?"
"Stane International. Long Island."
Angela leaned back slightly, reassessing me. "That's ambitious." A pause. "What's the objective?"
"Assorted hard drives"
"And you need me for...?"
"A reliable pair of hands."
Angela nodded slowly. "We're being vague, I see. How many people are on the crew?"
"Three people total. You, me, and one other."
"Timeline?"
"Probably a week or two out."
She studied me for a long moment. "What's my cut?"
"You'll get a percentage of the profits when I sell the information."
The woman's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind her eyes. "That's fine. I'll take eight percent." She leaned forward slightly. "However, whatever this is, I'd like to be paid five thousand dollars up front."
She smirked, reading my hesitation. "That's the initial fee for my time. Consulting, planning, whatever preparation this requires. The percentage is for the actual job."
I winced internally. I could float it, it would just be a significant chunk of change. You had to spend money to make money after all.
"I'll give you the cash tomorrow."
She nodded. "Pleasure doing business. We'll meet at this diner tomorrow morning, 10:30."
I made my way back to the warehouse, mind whirling. Stack seemed reliable, but Angela seemed....unique. How long had she been watching the payphone? Did she do that whenever that number was called? Having someone who was good at disguise could never hurt with something like this, and she probably wasn't Chameleon, although I wasn't quite sure where Chameleon was as of now. Pushing that alarming tangent aside, Angela didn't exactly seem trustworthy.
These thoughts filled my mind as I made my way to the bunk, slipping into a dreamless sleep.
The next morning, I stretched as I got up at 6 AM. Angela still seemed suspect, but I wasn't exactly drowning in options. Catherine was many things, but overly trusting wasn't one of them. She wouldn't recommend someone carelessly.
While five thousand wasn't exactly nothing, Catherine hadn't steered me too far wrong with the first contact. I decided to extend a degree of trust to Catherine and by extension, Angela. I grabbed one of my spare shopping bags, and counted out the necessary cash from where I was storing it (a drawer in the kitchen of the bunker, sue me). I had around twenty thousand in total assets, and this was a hit. Quietly cringing as I counted it out, I scooped it into the paper bag.
Arriving early in the diner, I decided to have something to eat, ordering breakfast and a coffee. I perused the clientele, sipping at my mug wondering how Angela would approach this time. 3 construction workers were in a booth, a CONED employee was sipping coffee at the counter and a tired taxi driver had just come off the night shift, eyes bleary.
At around 10:25, another worker pushed through the door. White woman. MTA employee. Navy blue work shirt with the transit authority patch on the shoulder, matching work pants and work boots. Dark blonde hair pulled back in a practical ponytail under a navy blue cap with the MTA logo. An ID badge clipped to her shirt pocket, a heavy key ring on her belt, and what looked like a work order clipboard tucked under one arm completed the image.
She didn't stand out from the morning flow. Just another transit worker grabbing coffee between shifts. But as she scanned the diner, she caught my eye and winked.
I waved tentatively.
"Angela?" I inquired as she slid into the booth across from me. The transit employee nodded.
Up close, the transformation was impressive. Her eyes were brown instead of green. Definitely contact lenses. Her facial structure was the same, so no prosthetics, but she was wearing less makeup, and the way she carried herself was completely different. It was perfect. If she hadn't blown it by winking at me, I'd have never guessed it was her.
"Morning," she said, reaching for the bag without ceremony.
Even her voice was different. She had a very defined Brooklyn accent today.
She opened it just enough to glance inside, did a quick thumb-count of the bills, then nodded with satisfaction. "We're good."
She tore a page off the clipboard and slid it across the table. A phone number, written in utilitarian block letters. "Call this number when you're ready to read me in on the plan."
With that, she scooped up the bag, and stood. A desultory nod in my direction, and she was walking out the door with the same purposeful stride she'd walked in with.
I sat there for a moment, watching her disappear into the morning foot traffic.
I had a niggling feeling that she was a minor character of some sort who'd shown up on-panel, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The skillset was too specific. Master of disguise, mercenary for hire, (probably) not the Chamelon, a Skrull, a Dire Wraith or Mystique.
I'd place her eventually.
Catherine wasn't joking about her being weird and effective. Why put together an elaborate disguise just to pick up payment? A skill demonstration for a potential employer?
Either way, I now had two people committed to the Stane job. Both seemed relatively competent, and in general, seemed to be a higher class of muscle then the types I could have gotten through Vito.
I picked myself up out of the booth after finishing my breakfast and leaving a tip. The waitress barely glanced my way as I headed for the door.
Time to make my way over to NJ to talk to AIM once again.
After a series of train rides, I found myself back in the industrial park, talking to the LMD secretary once again.
"Good afternoon. I'm here to talk to Jackson about a job I had asked about earlier."
The LMD smiled. "Please wait. I'm sure someone will be with you in a few minutes."
That was odd. On my previous visits, I'd been waved right in.
After twenty minutes of staring at the walls and worrying, the secretary finally looked up. "Darell is ready for you. Take the elevator down, please."
Darell? What was Jackson busy with? That was another ominous sign.
I took the familiar quick elevator ride, ears popping as per usual, and entered into the main operational area of the facility. Nobody was waiting for me there, which was even more of a departure from the baseline I had come to expect with this AIM cell.
The supercomputer was rolling. I wasn't the most familiar with vintage supercomputing even before my ... trip, but the tape reels were spinning and the white noise coming from the room was noticeably louder then it was on previous trips. I'd have loved to get a look at whatever they were working on.
The automated manufacturing room was also churning away, even though I couldn't tell on....what exactly.
Finally, after five minutes of waiting, a very frazzled looking Darell appeared in the hall, blue beekeeper suit on, but headpiece off. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, skin ashy and hair in disarray. He also smelled distinctly of sweat and coffee.
"You're here about the Stane thing right?"
"Yes? Is this a bad time?"
Darell shrugged. "Yes. The person/thing/entity" he gestured vaguely. "that turned that building into gold in NYC has an energy signature that overlaps with the cosmic cube."
I paused. AIM didn't have a cosmic cube at this time, I was pretty sure, so this would be pretty important for them. I was pretty sure that as of the latest retcon, the cube was hooked into proto-Beyonder dimension? Primordial ooze? somehow.
"This is...it's massive." He rubbed his forehead. "We've been cranking out cheap sensor packages and putting them all over the NYC metro area to get as much data as possible, and the supercomputer has been cranking on sims. I haven't slept in 2 days. This is my ...." he counted groggily on his fingers. "48th? 50th? Hour without sleep."
He paused. "I might have gotten more sleep if it wasn't for a decision that Becca made a few months back."
I raised an eyebrow. "What fresh hell has she unleashed?"
"Becca told the physics working group about loop unrolling when they were using the old machine, and bad habits carried over."
"Ah." From my experience, physicists weren't great about writing code at the best of times, and premature optimization wasn't great.
Darrell continued, warming to his topic. "God bless them, they're intelligent people, but what the physics geniuses didn't account for is that the newer supercomputer is really bleeding edge. See, they just moved over from the older Cray machine we had. They held out as long as possible because they liked the toolchain. On that machine, loop unrolling helped performance. The compiler wasn't sophisticated, so hand-optimizing actually made sense."
He gestured tiredly. "But this new machine has a completely different architecture. The compiler is smarter. All their manual unrolling is just-"
I interrupted, having seen this pattern before in my time. "Causing more cache misses."
Darrell nodded grimly. "Exactly. Performance tanked on some simulations and they couldn't figure out why. I had to explain cache line sizes to someone with a PhD in particle physics."
He rubbed his face. "Then one of them crashed the entire cluster at 5 AM, because they had a process that infinitely forked itself."
Darell sighed. "Getting back to your project, we probably aren't going to be able to help you for the next week. We're all hands on deck on this right now."
I groaned internally. I think I'd just have to wait.