POV: Gerald Weston
[New York]
"Do you have any idea what you've done?!" screamed the bloated, balding excuse of a corrupt cop, his face so red it looked like he was one bad day away from a heart attack.
I was in the dingy interrogation room of the station, sitting across from this pig in a cheap suit. The flickering fluorescent light above us only added to the atmosphere of pathetic intimidation he was trying to project. Too bad for him, I wasn't buying it.
Leaning back in my chair, arms crossed like I owned the place, I let a smug smirk crawl across my face. "Yeah," I drawled, my tone laced with venomous mockery. "I killed a terrorist. Meanwhile, you're over here trying to compensate for your one-millimeter dick by screaming at the guy who did your job for you."
His face turned an alarming shade of crimson, his hands slamming down on the table as if that would make me take him seriously. His fists clenched so tight I half-expected his fat knuckles to pop. Honestly, the guy looked like he was about to stroke out. I wouldn't have minded.
"You think this is funny?!" he barked, leaning in so close I could smell the toxic cocktail of stale coffee, cheap cigarettes, and moral decay radiating off him. "You don't get to decide who lives and who dies!"
I tilted my head slightly, pretending to mull over his words as if they weren't utterly ridiculous. "And yet," I said, letting my smirk widen just enough to push him further, "here I am, making those decisions while you're too busy yelling yourself into an early grave. Life's full of surprises, huh?"
The vein on his temple looked like it was about to burst, but before he could get another word out, I waved my hand lazily, like I was swatting a fly. "Let's get one thing straight," I continued, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut through his bluster. "It was self-defense. Those so-called terrorists were armed, dangerous, and a threat to everyone in the vicinity. So, yeah, I handled it. And judging by the way you're huffing and puffing here, I'd say I'm better at your job than you'll ever be."
His mouth opened, but no words came out. He just stood there, his face contorting as he struggled to come up with something—anything—to throw back at me. But there was nothing. Just silence.
I leaned forward slightly, closing the gap, my voice dropping to a low, deliberate tone. "Face it," I said, my smirk now a full-blown grin. "I saved lives while you sat on your bloated ass. The real question isn't what I've done—it's why we're still wasting taxpayer dollars on you."
Leaning back into my chair, I started rocking it casually, the legs scraping the floor with a deliberate, grating rhythm. "What are you even doing here, huh? Playing the tired old 'bad cop, good cop' routine?" My eyes drifted to his supposed partner—who hadn't said a word, just sitting there awkwardly like a piece of cheap furniture. Then I turned my gaze back to the bloated prick in front of me.
"And let me guess," I continued, my tone mocking, "you're supposed to be the 'bad cop.' Well, the only thing bad here is your father's decision not to wear protection the night you were conceived. Honestly, the world didn't need another worthless, cum-stain excuse for a man like you stinking it up."
The room fell deathly silent. The so-called good cop shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting around as he tried to avoid making eye contact. The red-faced bastard in front of me froze, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air, struggling to process the verbal gut punch I'd just delivered.
I smirked, leaning back in my chair once more, hands clasped behind my head, rocking it slowly, savoring the discomfort I'd caused. "What's the matter?" I asked, feigning innocent curiosity. "Cat got your tongue? Or did I just hit a little too close to home?"
The cop's face twitched, his rage simmering just below the surface, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he struggled to hold it together. But then, his voice faltered, "Y-You motherfu—"
I cut him off with a sharp, taunting laugh, leaning in just a little closer, savoring the moment. "Oh, spare me the theatrics. It's obvious your entire existence is just a result of your father's needle-dick barging into your mother's personal space without a second thought. No wonder you turned out like this—an embarrassment to the badge and a stain on humanity's collective dignity."
The tension in the room thickened, like the air itself had turned hostile. I leaned forward, locking eyes with the pathetic excuse for a man in front of me, and let my voice drop to a chilling whisper. "So tell me," I said, each word sharp and deliberate, "how does it feel knowing you're just the tragic result of a failed condom and a decision that should've never been made?"
His face twitched, the rage seething beneath the surface, but there was something else behind his eyes—something that flickered for just a second before vanishing. Doubt? Shame? It didn't matter. I had him where I wanted him.
Suddenly, with a guttural scream, he lunged forward, his fist swinging toward me, fueled by pure fury. But I saw it coming a mile away. The movement was predictable, sloppy, a desperate reaction to a feeling of powerlessness.
I didn't move.
His fist stopped inches from my face, hovering in the air, trembling with the force of his frustration. I tilted my head slightly to the side, eyes still locked on his, as if I were examining an insect under a microscope.
From the corner of my eye, I saw the so-called "good cop" stepping forward, his hand gripping the fat prick's arm, restraining him with surprising force. The look of hesitation on the good cop's face was unmistakable—he knew better than to let this escalate.
"I will kill you, you motherfucker!" he bellowed, his voice shaking with a mixture of fury and desperation. His entire body trembled with the effort to hold himself together, but it was clear he was barely hanging on to what little control he had left.
I didn't flinch. Didn't move. I didn't even blink.
I stared straight into his eyes, every inch of me radiating the confidence of a man who knew he had already won. My voice, when it came, was calm—too calm. "You think you're a threat?" I said softly. "You can't even control your own temper, let alone kill me. You're all talk, just a big mouth and even smaller balls."
The words hung in the air, heavy with the sting of truth, and I saw the anger in his eyes turn to something else—something more dangerous, something akin to self-loathing.
The good cop's grip tightened, and the fat cop's fist slowly lowered, his entire body shaking with the tension of holding back.
"Come on, Frank," the good cop urged, his voice firm but tinged with frustration. "Back off. Just back off."
With a grunt, the good cop practically shoved the fat cop out of the room, dragging him by the arm as Frank stumbled, still seething with unchecked fury. The door slammed shut behind them, leaving me in the oppressive silence.
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a slow, deliberate breath as I basked in the silence of victory.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Time passed as I sat patiently in the chair, the silence stretching on. I didn't mind the wait—if anything, it gave me more time to savor the calm before whatever storm was coming next. The tension from the earlier confrontation had faded, and now, all I had was my own thoughts to keep me company.
Suddenly, the door to the interrogation room swung open with a force that snapped me out of my reverie. A figure entered, commanding the space with an almost tangible authority. He was dressed in a dark trench coat, his movements purposeful and measured, the kind of presence that made the room feel smaller the moment he stepped inside.
His left eye was concealed by an eye patch.
I raised an eyebrow as he stepped in—definitely not your average cop. Before I could even open my mouth, he spoke in a voice that was low, gravelly, and laced with authority.
"Gerald Weston," he said, his tone carrying the weight of someone who didn't need to introduce himself, yet still did. "The name's Nick Fury. Director of SHIELD."
His words weren't a question—they were a statement. A challenge, almost. He wasn't asking if I knew who he was; he was telling me that I should.
"SHIELD, huh? So, what, you protect the governments and their endless parade of insecurities?"
He stepped forward, his stance unwavering, but I wasn't done.
"You-" He started to speak, but I cut him off, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Alright, let me guess. You're some kind of glorified babysitter for the suits? Protecting the powers-that-be from themselves, keeping their dirty little secrets safe and sound? Sounds like a real hero's job," I said, my tone sharp, taking pleasure in the discomfort I could see on his face.
I leaned back in my chair, watching him closely. He had a reputation, but I could tell I'd hit a nerve. This wasn't just some typical government lackey, and I wasn't about to let him think he could intimidate me.
"You've got a lot of nerve walking in here," I continued, my voice colder now. "So, tell me, Fury. What does SHIELD want with me? Or is this just a waste of both our time?"
His face tightened, a frown spreading across his features. He didn't flinch, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Son," he said, his voice steady but laced with irritation, "I've been disrespected before. Hell, I've had worse thrown at me. But I've gotta say—you're topping all of them." He let out a small, mocking smirk, his eye narrowing as he studied me. "But keep talking. It'll make this more interesting."
I didn't break eye contact, waiting for the inevitable shift. Something told me Fury wasn't here for small talk, and I was sure he didn't mind playing this game.
Fury's smirk lingered, his presence like a storm cloud, heavy and unrelenting. He stepped closer, his boots echoing against the floor as he loomed over me. "You think this is a game, Weston?" he said, his tone sharp, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Trust me, when SHIELD shows up, it's never just a social call."
I leaned forward slightly, matching his intensity. "Oh, I'm sure it's not. So let's cut the crap. What do you want? Or are you just here to see how long it takes for me to piss you off?"
Fury chuckled darkly, the kind of laugh that wasn't about humor but control. He crossed his arms, his trench coat shifting slightly as he moved. "What I want," he began, his voice steady and deliberate, "is to make sure you understand the position you're in. You think you're clever, you think you're untouchable. But let me tell you something, Weston. SHIELD has ways of dealing with people like you. Ways that don't involve wasting time in rooms like this."
I smirked, leaning back in my chair, completely unfazed. "People like me?" I repeated, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before tilting my head, feigning mock offense. "Careful now, Fury. That almost sounded a little racist."
Fury didn't so much as blink. His smirk returned, colder this time, like he was already two steps ahead. "You don't want to play that card with me, Weston," he said, his voice dropping lower, each word deliberate. "People like you aren't a race—they're a problem. And I've been solving problems longer than you've been alive."
I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. "You've got a way with words, Fury. I'll give you that. But I'd love to see how you plan on 'solving' me."
Fury stepped closer, the tension in the room thickening with each step. He leaned in just enough to make his presence oppressive, his single eye locked onto mine. "The way I see it, you've got two options. Either you start listening, or I make damn sure you stop talking. Your call."
I held his gaze for a moment, the smirk still tugging at the corner of my mouth, before raising my hands in mock surrender. "Alright," I said, leaning back in my chair with exaggerated casualness. "You've got my attention, Director. I'm all ears."
Without a word, Fury reached into his coat and pulled out a file, placing it on the table between us. He flipped it open with deliberate precision, revealing the contents inside. My name and face stared back at me from the top of the first page. The details beneath, however, were sparse—practically non-existent. No history, no records, no explanation of who or what I was. Just empty space where my past should have been.
I glanced down at the file, then back up at Fury, my smirk growing wider. "That's it? A name and a face? You came all this way for a blank slate?" I leaned forward, tapping the edge of the file with a finger. "Doesn't look like you've got much to go on, Director. I'd almost feel bad for wasting your time."
Fury's single eye narrowed, his voice as sharp and unyielding as steel. "You don't exist. Not in any database, not in any records—nothing. And believe me, I've checked everything. People like you don't just fall through the cracks, Weston. You're either a ghost... or something worse."
I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "A ghost, huh? I like the sound of that. Real mysterious. Maybe you should've brought a priest instead of a file."
Fury ignored the jab, his gaze never wavering. "The lack of a trail isn't what bothers me. It's the fact that wherever you go, things tend to... break. People die. Systems collapse. And yet, you walk away clean every single time. So let's skip the games, Weston. Who the hell are you?"
I tilted my head, feigning thoughtfulness, before offering him a sly grin. "Who am I? That's the million-dollar question, isn't it? But if you don't know, maybe you're not as good at your job as you think, Director."
Fury's expression didn't change, but I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—a flicker of something between irritation and resolve. Without a word, he reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek tablet. He tapped the screen a few times, then turned it toward me.
The video started playing, and I instantly recognized the scene. There I was, dealing with the Green Goblin and the Vulture, two terrorists who had made the mistake of crossing my path. The footage wasn't pretty—no carefully choreographed heroics, no witty banter. Just raw, brutal efficiency, Every move, every calculated decision screamed one thing: I wasn't there to save anyone. I was there to end them.
Fury didn't waste time with theatrics. "You—" he began, his voice laced with accusation.
"It was self-defense," I cut him off, my tone sharp and unapologetic. I leaned back in my chair, gesturing at the tablet. "Or did your fancy surveillance forget to capture the part where they attacked me first?"
Fury didn't flinch. His expression was hard, unreadable, like a wall of granite. "I wasn't talking about that part," he said, his voice dropping an octave, each word deliberate and heavy. He leaned forward slightly, his single eye burning with intensity. "I was about to ask you how you got that strong."
I arched an eyebrow, the smirk tugging at my lips again. "Strong? That's an interesting choice of words. What's wrong, Fury? Afraid of a little competition?"
He slammed the tablet down on the table, leaning closer until the space between us felt suffocating. "Don't play coy with me, Weston. That kind of power doesn't come out of nowhere. Men don't walk around taking down two of the most dangerous terrorists alive like it's just another Tuesday. So, I'll ask you again—what are you?"
The smirk on my face widened into a grin, and I tilted my head, feigning amusement. "What am I? Now, there's a loaded question. Maybe I'm just the guy who doesn't pull punches. Or maybe," I leaned forward now, mirroring his intensity, "you're not ready to hear the truth."
Fury stared at me, unblinking, his jaw tightening as he studied me like a predator sizing up prey. "Try me," he said, his voice a low growl. "You'd be surprised what I'm ready for."
I leaned back, folding my arms across my chest, the grin never leaving my face. "Alright, Fury, let's play your little game. But first things first—what do you want? You've got me in this room, throwing videos and accusations at me. So, what's your angle? Spit it out."
Fury took a step back, his posture still commanding. "You're an anomaly, Weston," he said, his tone steady but charged with purpose. "You don't exist in any database, any record, any timeline. You're a ghost—one with skills and power that shouldn't be possible. And that makes you dangerous."
I raised an eyebrow, my grin faltering just slightly. "Dangerous? That's a bit dramatic, don't you think? I'm just a guy trying to stay alive in a world that doesn't play fair."
"Don't give me that," Fury snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. "You don't just 'stay alive' by taking out threats like Goblin and Vulture the way you did. You're not surviving—you're operating. And I want to know why. Who trained you? Who do you work for? Or better yet—what are you?"