Sarah (POV)
As I descended the stairs, I stripped down to just my underwear and pulled on a slick black outfit. Over that, I layered a thin, flexible suit of armor. I was pleased with the suit's performance: each piece fit me like a second skin, offering protection without sacrificing mobility—silent and deadly.
"While my Venom suit and Spawn have their appeal, they primarily enhance my strength and speed. And since Kara's latest project, the composite material fabric, isn't ready yet, this is the best I can do for defense," I mused. "Besides, tonight demands a different persona, something more grounded."
Satisfied, I secured the titanium chest-plate and slid on a pair of golden gloves with distinctive fingertip grooves. A quick glance in the mirror—yep, good to go.
With a black cloak, a hooded helmet, and only a sliver of my face visible, I transformed into a silent wraith. Upstairs, Ava awaited, clad in similar black attire.
A single glance confirmed our preparedness. I retrieved an object from above the TV cabinet and tossed it to Ava—a plain black mask. Then I picked up my own unique spiral mask, a comically scary head-turner compared to Ava's, and donned it.
Ava eyed the robin-esque mask on my face, a flicker of something akin to human jealousy crossing her features. "Seriously? That's the best you can do for me?" she scoffed, her voice dripping with sass. "This mask is about as plain as yesterday's bread. And besides," she added, with a flippant edge, "isn't the whole point of my abilities that I don't need a mask? I can morph my face into anyone's..."
"Trust me, Ava," I countered a hint of amusement in my voice, "the understated look can be effective. Professional, no-nonsense." Truth was, I just didn't think about making another mask for her.
Ava, lacking a sophisticated understanding of human emotions, couldn't detect the deception. She reluctantly donned the plain black mask, accepting my explanation. Though a flicker of dissonance registered on her internal facial recognition program, she dismissed it as just another one of my human blunders.
I flashed a quick grin—my disguise activation—and the two of us walked through the front door. Cameras in my quiet suburban street were old news, hacked as soon as I moved in. Maintenance wasn't due for another month, so no worries about being caught on film. Who would even recognize these masked strangers, after all?
A few blocks later, the scenery transformed dramatically. Out on the street, I led the way, a silent symphony of black. No point attracting attention; the last thing I needed was a bunch of muscleheads causing a scene.
My destination? A warehouse on the outskirts of Chinatown. Lan Zhang's gang, with its ties to a shady security company, used it to stash questionable merchandise and hang out off-duty.
Ava and I arrived, and with the plan in place, she transformed herself into a living projectile, launching through the front window. The shattering glass and the thud of her metal body crashing inside made for quite the entrance.
Standing casually by the entrance, I flexed my fingers, each one adorned with a gleaming titanium claw. A satisfying snick-snick echoed as they extended to full length. With a final grin, I leaped through the broken window.
"Hellooo, anyone home? I'm here to deliver a package. If no one shows up, I'll have to file a complaint about your customer service. Keeping a lady waiting is rude."
My landing wasn't graceful. I slammed into a dark-haired man, knocking him to the floor. Groans of pain filled the air as I quickly assessed the situation. Around me, several young men were bleeding from their heads, victims of well-placed strikes.
Across the warehouse, a group of thugs were huddled near the door, engrossed in a card game. Others gambled at scattered tables throughout the room. The sound of breaking glass had alerted them, and now they scrambled for their weapons, cautiously approaching the source of the noise.
One figure dominated the scene. A towering woman in black stood by the shattered window, savagely beating the first gangster to arrive. Blood streamed down their face as the others, displaying remarkable cowardice, bolted the moment the odds turned south. Their rusty pipes and metal bars were child's toys against this nightmare.
Terminator Ava, her objective clear—to take down anyone still standing—wasted no breath. She lunged after the fleeing goons, a relentless metal predator.
Meanwhile, a lone thug, his fear outweighed by a sliver of sense, ditched his blade for a submachine gun. A hail of gunfire erupted from the remaining thugs, following his example, a mix of idiots clutching phones and others wielding submachine guns. They peppered the metal crates where Terminator Ava lurked, waiting for a chance to return fire.
"Excuse me, chaps! Don't let me interrupt your little game," I called out, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Package delivery for Lan Zhang. Anyone willing to sign for it?"
In a flash of movement, I tossed a thermal grenade into the group. The metallic thud of the grenade hitting the ground was a chilling prelude to the explosion that would follow.
From the gang's perspective, the world went from card games and gambling to utter chaos. A cloaked figure appeared out of nowhere, spouting something unintelligible before chucking a metal canister at them. Pure instinct took over—scramble for cover!
I, with glinting claws, wasted no time. As the grenade left my hand, I launched myself behind a heavy metal crate just as the world erupted in a searing inferno.
Thermal grenades, aptly named, lived up to their reputation. The canister detonated with a deafening boom, spewing a wave of superheated steam at 540 degrees. This wasn't a Hollywood explosion—this was a silent assassin, a vaporous shroud that sought flesh to burn.
Peeking around the edge of the crate, I saw it worked as advertised. Groans of agony mingled with the hiss of steam as it danced through the air, a spectral reaper claiming its victims. The men writhed on the floor, their skin turning an unnatural red, then an even more disturbing waxy white as the heat penetrated their bodies. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavy in the air, and I winced.
"Ugh, this stuff is really nasty. Better not use it too often, or I'll never be able to stomach medium-rare steak again," I muttered, pushing myself off the crate and wading through the carnage. Sympathy for degenerate gangsters? None. My objective remained—find the damn box.
One by one, I rummaged through crates, tossing aside useless items with a sigh of frustration. Finally, my fingers brushed against something promising. Not my box, but its contents were intriguing. A triumphant grin spread beneath my mask. No time for niceties. These spoils were hard-earned.
...
General (POV)
Fury scowled at the file, the furrow between his brows deepening with each passing second. A sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door shattered the tense silence.
"Yeah," he barked, a sliver of hope lacing his gruff voice. "Come in, Hill. Better have good news, Agent. Otherwise, that bonus is fish food."
Hill, a statue of professional composure, glided past his usual taunts. Her gaze locked onto the file in his hand, cold and sharp as a scalpel.
"Intel drop on the Hell's Kitchen dock massacre," she said, her voice clipped and efficient. "Possible mutant perpetrators. Ninety percent match. Orders, Director?"
Fury's playful facade vanished like a burst bubble. Weeks of dead ends and a city on edge were about to collide. He slammed his fist on the desk, the crack echoing in the confined space.
"Finally," he growled, frustration thick in his throat. "Melinda and Romanoff are still down there, wrapping up their op, right? Patch them in. Now. Need them on-site, pronto. Stall the suspect if you have to, but don't engage."
His eyes narrowed. "And Hill, assemble Special Ops. Double time. I want them prepped and ready to move on a dime."
Hill, her face a blank slate, offered a curt nod and spun on her heel, exiting the office with brisk efficiency. The clock was ticking. They had a suspect, and Fury wasn't letting him slip through his fingers.
...
"Agent May, mission update. Urgent. Location: warehouse outside Chinatown. Your objective: stall the suspect. Special Ops on standby for immediate deployment."
Melinda's knuckles whitened around the communicator. "Understood. What about the suspect? Any intel?"
A frustrated sigh crackled through the line. "Unknown. Possible mutant, connected to the Hell's Kitchen massacre. Get there ASAP and stall them. No heroics."
Melinda spoke into her earpiece. "Natasha. Warehouse outside Chinatown. Now."
Across town, Natasha was mid-soiree, dazzling ambassadors with fabricated charm when the mission update buzzed. With an elegant smile and using a sudden migraine as excuse, she ditched the bewildered crowd. Minutes later, her car screeched to a halt outside the warehouse, tires smoking.
Melinda stood ramrod straight beside the cracked open door. Her usual unflappable facade was a shattered mirror, replaced by a mask of chalky horror. Even her steely gaze, usually sharp as a scalpel, swam with unease.
"What the hell?" Natasha blurted, worry creasing her brow. Melinda remained silent, her body trembling like a leaf in a hurricane. She looked like she might puke. A gloved hand gestured towards the gaping doorway.
Curiosity gnawed at Natasha, battling a rising tide of dread. What kind of nightmare could crack Agent May, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s own personal cavalry? Natasha inched closer, then peeked inside. Her breath hitched. The sight that greeted her sent a jolt of pure terror straight down her spine.
Natasha edged closer to the warehouse entrance, the stench hitting her like a punch. It was rancid—burnt fat and scorched flesh clinging thick in the air. Her stomach twisted as it dawned on her. Burned alive? But there was no whiff of gasoline, no hint of an accelerant.
She pushed the door open wider, and the scene inside was straight out of a nightmare. Bodies, twisted in silent agony, were scattered across the concrete floor. Blood had mingled with charred flesh that clung to pieces of what looked like melted weapons—the source of that disgusting smell. She moved like a shadow until she stood next to Melinda, whose usual iron mask had cracked into a look of pure disgust. Even Natasha, a seasoned veteran of more black ops than she could count, felt a nauseous wave creeping up.
She'd just sprinted from a three-hour undercover gala full of enemy agents—three long hours of fake smiles and clinking glasses. But the moment that mission update came in, she bolted out of there.
Melinda snapped out of it first, perhaps the lack of alcohol clearing the fog from her mind faster. With a quick, no-nonsense tilt of her chin, she tossed Natasha a loaded mag. "Stall? No chance. We're taking them down."
Natasha met her gaze, and their nod said it all. The fancy gown she'd used to blend in with the elite felt laughable now—a useless costume. She let the facade drop, transforming from socialite to soldier in an instant. A handgun appeared in her hand as it had never left her side. She moved forward into the warehouse, each step as silent and deadly as a viper closing in on its prey.
Melinda followed close behind, her eyes tracking the silent dance of Natasha's shadow weaving between crates. The warehouse air, a fog of the smell of blood and burnt flesh seemed to suffocate any sound. Only the harsh scrape of their boots on the slimy floor broke the oppressive silence.
Silence shattered. A figure clad in black thrashed wildly in the distance. The figure smashed wooden crates with a crowbar, sending splinters flying, and rummaged through the contents with a frantic urgency.
Disbelief flickered across Melinda's face. The figure vanished. She knew from the Hell's Kitchen massacre that this wouldn't be a simple takedown. Gun trained on the last known position, she crept forward. Nothing. While Melinda assessed the situation with a wary eye, Natasha, a ghost in the shadows, secured their flank.
A silent signal flashed in Natasha's eyes, a message clear and concise. Melinda glanced in the distance presuming the figure fled then swiftly retreated, towards the gap between the crates. Following Natasha's gaze, Melinda whipped her head around, her eyes narrowing into slits as she pierced the darkness. Something, unseen but undeniably present, lurked in the shadows beyond.
Suddenly, a hail of bullets rained down, clanging off the metal crates with a harsh noise. followed by a pair of boots slamming on the floor from apparently great height.
It was Sarah, previously a silent observer perched in the rafters. The blonde's search yielded nothing. Neither the warehouse nor the office held any trace of the box she sought. The missing weapons remained elusive. As Sarah was preparing to retreat, a shadowy figure appeared at the doorway. Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow herself.
Sarah intended to observe the Black Widow's approach to her Terminator. With a subtle code, she had Navi wirelessly tell Ava to create a loud distraction – a barrage of crashing crates filled the air.
To her surprise, it wasn't the Black Widow who took action, but Agent May. May's shots were miraculously missed, thanks to Ava's abilities. Sensing potential escalation, Sarah dropped down. No point in Ava getting trigger-happy and going full-on Terminator before she could intervene.
A smug grin stretched across Sarah's face. "Well, well, well," she announced, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "Look who decided to join the party." She then proceeded to yoink a half-ton metal crate that looked like it could hold a small car and hurled it at them like they were bowling pins.
Melinda, with reflexes that would make a cat jealous, honed by years of dodging bullets, shoved Natasha aside just in time. The crate obliterated their wooden hiding spot, showering them with splinters. Both women emerged, faces like thunderclouds, guns drawn and pointed directly at the grinning android in front of them.
"Identify yourself," Melinda's voice cut through the tension. "Explain your involvement. We won't hesitate to act."
Natasha added, her tone firm, "Answer truthfully, or we'll be forced to take action."
Sarah, masked and silent, studied the two familiar strangers. "kill or let live," they weren't the bad guys, but anyone threatening her existence was a bad guy.
A casual wave, hands rising in a placating gesture. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you what you want to know," she said, voice flat and monotone. "I am here with my companions, searching for items our organization lost. You can trust me."
Natasha and Melinda kept their guns trained on her, both trying to stall for time. Locked eyes. A silent exchange – a shared suspicion simmering beneath the surface. Melinda was sure this was the notorious killer from the Hell's Kitchen massacre they had been hunting.
"Unmask yourself," Melinda shouted, voice tight. "We have some questions for you."
Sarah seemed to comply slowly bringing her hands to her mask. A flicker of something dark – malice? amusement? – ignited in her eyes. "Sure, I can do that. Curious about the docks, are we? Happy to provide a firsthand account." A twisted smile stretched across her face.
"More than happy," she purred, voice dripping with veiled threat.
Melinda's hand tightened around her gun. "Mutant!" she spat, the accusation hanging heavy in the air.
A chilling laugh, devoid of humor, echoed through the warehouse. "As different," Sarah hissed, "as man and machine."
In a flash, Sarah lunged, forcing Natasha and Melinda to scatter like startled prey.