The van screeched to a halt, the sudden deceleration throwing Ibnor forward against the back of the driver's seat. He braced himself, his heart still pounding from the tense ride. The doors opened, and Natasha stepped out, her movements fluid and purposeful. Clint followed close behind, his eyes still fixed on Ibnor.
"Out," Natasha said, her voice sharp and commanding.
Ibnor hesitated, his legs feeling weak and unsteady. He reluctantly climbed out of the van, blinking against the bright lights of the facility. They were in a secure underground parking garage, the concrete walls and fluorescent lights giving the place a cold, sterile feel. The air was cool and dry, a stark contrast to the damp, musty air of the sewers.
Two more agents in tactical gear stood waiting, their weapons holstered but visible. They flanked Ibnor as Natasha and Clint escorted him through a set of heavy steel doors. The doors hissed shut behind them, sealing them off from the outside world.
They walked down a long, brightly lit corridor, the only sound their footsteps echoing off the polished concrete floor. The atmosphere was tense and professional, every agent they passed moving with a sense of purpose. Ibnor felt a growing sense of dread, realizing the gravity of his situation. This was no ordinary police station; this was something far more serious.
They arrived at a nondescript door marked only with a number. Natasha swiped a keycard, and the door clicked open. They ushered Ibnor inside a small, sparsely furnished holding room.
"Wait here," Natasha instructed, her voice leaving no room for argument. She and Clint then exited, leaving Ibnor alone. The door clicked shut behind them.
Hours later, he found himself in a stark, brightly lit room. It was small, painted a dull, institutional grey, and furnished with only a metal table and two chairs. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting harsh shadows that accentuated the lines of worry on his face. He'd been given dry clothes – another set of plain jeans and a t-shirt – and a lukewarm cup of water, but the gesture felt more perfunctory than kind. The tension in the room was palpable, a thick, suffocating blanket of suspicion.
Two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents sat across from him. One was a man with short, cropped hair and a stern expression, his jaw set in a hard line. The other was a woman with sharp features and piercing blue eyes that seemed to dissect him with a single glance. They were professional, impassive, radiating an air of quiet authority that made the young man feel even smaller.
Behind the one-way mirror, in a smaller, dimly lit observation room, Natasha and Clint watched the interrogation unfold. Natasha leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Clint paced restlessly, his brow furrowed.
"He's nervous," Clint muttered, his voice low. "But it's more than just being interrogated. He's hiding something big."
Natasha nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on Ibnor's reflection in the mirror. "His story is full of holes. Too many coincidences."
"The names," Clint said, stopping his pacing and turning to Natasha. "That's what gets me. How could he know our names?"
Natasha remained silent for a moment, her gaze still fixed on the mirror. "Unless…" she began, then trailed off, a thoughtful expression on her face.
"Unless what?" Clint asked, his voice sharp.
"So," the male agent began, his voice calm but firm, "you were found with Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff during an active operation. You identified them by name. Care to explain how you knew who they were?"
In the observation room, Natasha and Clint exchanged a quick glance. The interrogation had officially begun.
The young man remained silent, trapped between the impossible truth and the obvious lie, a knot of fear tightening in his stomach. He swallowed hard, the lukewarm water doing little to soothe his dry throat. He knew, with a sinking certainty, that this was just the beginning. The interrogation had just begun.
Clint watched Ibnor closely, observing his body language, the slight tremor in his hands, the way he avoided eye contact.
"He's definitely holding back," he whispered to Natasha.
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the low hum of the fluorescent lights. The young man, Ibnor, shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He could feel the weight of their gazes, dissecting him, searching for any crack in his composure. He had to say something, but what?
"I… I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean to… I didn't know…"
Natasha's lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile. "That's the oldest excuse in the book," she murmured.
The male agent leaned forward, his expression unchanging. "You didn't know what, exactly? That you were stumbling into a highly classified S.H.I.E.L.D. operation? That's difficult to believe, considering the gunfire and explosions."
Ibnor winced. He knew it sounded ridiculous. "I… I heard the explosions, and I was trying to get away. I got lost in the sewers… then I saw them… Clint and… Agent Romanoff." He stumbled over her title, feeling a fresh wave of panic. He internally cursed himself for using their first names; it was the one thing that had truly given him away.
Clint frowned. "He's still stumbling over the 'Agent Romanoff' part. It's not natural."
"Lost in the sewers," the female agent repeated, a hint of skepticism in her voice. "And conveniently, you emerge just as our agents are making their escape? That's quite a story."
"It's the truth!" Ibnor insisted, his voice rising slightly. "I swear, I don't know anything. I don't even know what you're talking about!"
Natasha shook her head slowly. "He's getting agitated. That could be a sign of guilt… or just fear."
The male agent exchanged another glance with his partner. This time, Ibnor noticed a subtle shift in the female agent's expression – a flicker of something that looked almost like… pity? But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, professional mask.
"Let's try a different approach," the male agent said, his voice regaining its previous calm. He steepled his fingers, his gaze fixed on Ibnor. "What's your name?"
"Ibnor," he replied, his voice barely audible.
"Ibnor," the agent repeated, as if testing the name on his tongue. "And where are you from, Ibnor?"
This was the question he'd been dreading. He couldn't tell them the truth. He couldn't tell them he was from a world where S.H.I.E.L.D. was a fictional organization, where Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton were characters in movies. They'd lock him up and throw away the key, or worse.
"I… I don't remember," he lied, his heart sinking with guilt. It was a desperate, clumsy lie, but it was the only one he could think of. Think, Ibnor, think! he berated himself internally. You have to be smarter than this.
The female agent's eyes narrowed. "You don't remember where you're from?"
Ibnor shook his head, trying to look as confused and disoriented as possible. "I… I woke up in Budapest. I don't remember anything before that." He forced a tremor into his voice. "It's like… a blank. A complete blank."
Clint turned to Natasha, a serious expression on his face. "Amnesia? It's possible, but… something feels off."
The male agent remained silent for a moment, studying Ibnor intently. Then, he turned to his partner. "We've run facial recognition, checked databases, Interpol, everything," the female agent replied, her voice equally neutral. "Nothing. He's a ghost."
The male agent turned his attention back to Ibnor, his gaze unwavering. "We need answers. Who are you? Where did you come from? And how did you know Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff?" He paused, letting the questions hang in the air. "Because right now, Mr. Ibnor, you're looking an awful lot like a security risk."
Ibnor felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. He knew he was in deep trouble. He couldn't tell them the truth; they'd think he was insane. The agent's words echoed in his mind: security risk. It wasn't just about being questioned anymore; it was about being a threat.
The male agent leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the table. "Let's assume, for a moment, that you are telling the truth. Let's assume you have amnesia. That still doesn't explain how you knew Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff's names." He paused, his gaze boring into Ibnor's. "Unless… you were expecting to meet them."
In the observation room, Natasha straightened up, her expression hardening. "That's it," she said, her voice low and firm. "He's not just a bystander. He knew we were going to be there."
Ibnor remained silent, his mind racing. He had no answer. He had painted himself into a corner. He could feel the female agent's gaze on him as well, sharp and assessing.
The female agent crossed her arms, her expression skeptical. "We've checked local hospitals, missing persons reports, everything. There's no record of anyone matching your description. You're a ghost, Mr… whatever your name is."
Clint ran a hand through his hair, a look of frustration on his face. "A ghost with intimate knowledge of a S.H.I.E.L.D. operation. That's not good."
The male agent nodded slowly. "And that, coupled with your presence at a compromised S.H.I.E.L.D. operation, makes you a person of interest. A very high person of interest."
The tension in the room thickened. Ibnor could feel their suspicion, their distrust, pressing down on him like a physical weight. He knew that whatever he said next would be scrutinized, analyzed, dissected. He had to be careful.
"Look," he said, his voice strained, "I understand you're suspicious. I would be too. But I'm telling you the truth. I don't remember anything. If I knew how I knew their names, I would tell you."
Natasha shook her head. "He's sticking to the amnesia story. It's weak, but he's committed to it."
The male agent exchanged a look with his partner. There was a silent communication passing between them, a silent assessment of Ibnor's words and demeanor.
"We're going to run a neurological scan," the male agent finally said, his voice flat and decisive. "It's standard procedure in cases like this. It might help us recover some of your… lost memories."
Clint watched as Ibnor's expression shifted from confusion to fear. "That's the right call," he said to Natasha. "If there's something in his head, we'll find it."
Ibnor felt a chill run down his spine. He knew this wasn't about recovering memories. This was about finding something, something that would confirm their suspicions. He had a sinking feeling that this scan would reveal more than he wanted it to.
"A scan?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The female agent nodded. "It's nothing to be afraid of. It's just a routine procedure." But her eyes, those piercing blue eyes, told a different story.
The door opened again, and the female agent returned, followed by two more agents in white coats. They carried a small, portable scanner, resembling a metallic headband with several small probes extending from it. One of the medical agents approached Ibnor.
"This will only take a few minutes," he said, his voice professional and detached. "Just remain still."
Ibnor felt a wave of anxiety wash over him. He watched as the agent adjusted the scanner, placing it carefully on his head. The probes made contact with his skin, sending a slight chill through him. He could feel the weight of the device, the cold metal pressing against his temples.
The female agent stepped over to a console on the wall and began inputting data. The room was silent except for the low hum of the scanner and the quiet clicking of the keyboard. Ibnor closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. He had no idea what this scan would reveal, but he knew, with a sinking feeling, that it couldn't be good. He just hoped it wouldn't expose the impossible truth.
In the observation room, Natasha watched Ibnor's reflection in the one-way mirror, her expression thoughtful. Clint stood beside her, his arms crossed, his brow furrowed. The scan itself was running, but their attention was focused on the man in the other room.
"He's playing it cool," Clint observed, his voice low. "Too cool. For someone who claims to have amnesia and just stumbled into a firefight. Most people would be panicking."
"He's either very good at hiding it," Natasha replied, "or he genuinely believes his own story."
"Or," Clint added, a thoughtful expression on his face, "he knows something we don't. Something that gives him a sense of… security."
Natasha turned to him, her brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Clint shrugged slightly. "I don't know. It's just a feeling. He's not acting like someone who's completely lost and afraid. There's a… confidence there, buried beneath the surface."
Natasha turned back to the monitor, her eyes narrowing as she studied the data. "We'll see what the scan reveals," she said, her voice firm. "That will tell us everything we need to know."
"The amnesia is convenient. Almost too convenient," Clint muttered, returning to the earlier point.
Natasha nodded slowly. "And the names," Clint added, tapping his finger against his arm. "That's still the biggest red flag. How does a complete stranger know our first names?"
Natasha turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "There are a few possibilities," she said, ticking them off on her fingers. "One: he was involved in the operation somehow, maybe as a low-level operative who got cold feet. Two: he's been briefed on us, which means someone wanted him to know who we are."
"Or three," Clint interjected, a serious expression on his face, "he's not who he says he is at all."
Natasha considered this for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Clint explained, "what if the amnesia is real? But not in the way he's presenting it. What if he's not just lost his memories, but his entire identity? What if he's been… programmed?"
Natasha's brow furrowed. "Programmed? That's a stretch, even for S.H.I.E.L.D."
Clint shrugged. "Is it? We found him in a highly secure location, immediately after a compromised operation. He knows our names, but has no other discernible background. We've checked everything. He's a ghost. It's like he just… appeared."
Natasha turned back to the mirror, her gaze fixed on Ibnor. He sat motionless, his eyes still closed, his face betraying no emotion. "A ghost," she murmured, echoing the female agent's earlier assessment. "But a ghost with a purpose."
Clint nodded slowly. "And we need to find out what that purpose is."
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Whoa.. you're still here? Really, this is just a bait. Go read my other fanfic, I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.