Your're persistant huh? Alright... Enjoy the chapter. But don't forget to read my other fanfic, I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.
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The hum of the neurological scanner filled the sterile room, a constant drone that seemed to vibrate through Ibnor's skull. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing, trying to push down the rising panic. He could feel the cold probes pressed against his temples, a constant reminder of the scrutiny he was under. He had no idea what the scan would reveal, but he knew it couldn't be good. Just hold on, he thought, just until Thanos. If I can just survive until then…
His mind raced, desperately trying to piece together everything he knew about this world – or rather, the world it was. The Marvel Cinematic Universe. He remembered the grand narratives, the epic battles, the iconic heroes. Iron Man's arc reactor glowing in the night, Captain America's shield deflecting energy blasts, Thor's hammer summoning lightning. He recalled the threats: the Chitauri invasion, the rise of Ultron, the insidious infiltration of HYDRA. And then… Thanos.
He remembered the snap, the devastating loss, the desperate fight to bring everyone back. He remembered the final battle, the sacrifice, the victory. If I can just make it to the point where the Avengers stop him… he thought, clinging to that sliver of hope. He knew the timeline, roughly. He knew the key events. He just needed to survive long enough to see them play out.
But then, a conflicting thought wormed its way into his mind, a seed of doubt that threatened to unravel everything. Is this even the MCU? he wondered, a cold dread creeping into his heart. What if it's not? What if it's something else? He cursed himself. Reading too many fanfics had messed with his head. It was possible, wasn't it? That this wasn't a pure MCU world, but some twisted amalgamation, a blend of different Marvel universes, comics, cartoons, even fan interpretations. He knew it might not be true, but once the thought took root, he couldn't shake it. The faces of the agents, the technology, the very atmosphere of the place… it all felt slightly off, subtly different from what he remembered. What if he was preparing for a threat that wouldn't even exist here? What if Thanos wasn't the endgame?
In the interrogation room, Ibnor sat on a metal chair, the portable neurological scanner attached to his head. A medical agent in a lab coat adjusted the equipment, his expression focused and professional.
Behind the one-way mirror, in the observation room, Natasha and Clint watched the monitor intently. The scan had been running for several minutes, displaying complex waveforms and data streams that scrolled across the screen. Suddenly, a brief spike appeared in the readings, a sharp, almost instantaneous burst of activity before returning to the baseline. It was so fleeting that it almost went unnoticed.
"Did you see that?" Natasha asked, her brow furrowed, glancing at Clint.
Clint blinked. "See what? I thought I saw something, but it was gone too fast."
Natasha rewound the scan on their monitor, focusing on the precise moment of the anomaly. "There," she said, pointing to the screen. "A brief spike. A burst of neural activity."
Clint leaned closer. "Huh. Yeah, I see it now. But it's… nothing, really. Just a blip."
"It's still an anomaly," Natasha countered. "However brief."
In the interrogation room, the medical agent monitoring the portable scanner also noticed the spike on his own equipment. He checked the scanner's internal diagnostics, but everything was functioning within normal parameters. He made a note on his clipboard. He then spoke into a small comm-mic attached to his lab coat. "Observation, this is Medical. I've recorded a minor neural fluctuation during the scan. Nothing major, but protocol dictates we run a more comprehensive analysis."
In the observation room, Natasha and Clint exchanged a look. "A more comprehensive analysis?" Clint muttered. "Sounds like they're taking this more seriously than they let on."
Natasha nodded. "It seems so. Let's see where this goes."
The medical agent in the interrogation room turned to Ibnor. "Mr. Ibnor," he said, his tone professional, "we're going to need to move you to a more equipped medical lab for further testing. It's just a precaution."
Ibnor felt a fresh wave of anxiety wash over him. He had hoped the scan would be over and done with, but this escalation meant they were definitely onto something. What did they see? he wondered, his mind racing.
Ibnor was escorted through a maze of corridors, deeper into the facility. The sterile white walls and the heavy security doors reinforced the feeling of confinement. He was eventually led into a large, brightly lit laboratory filled with advanced medical equipment. Several scientists in lab coats were already present, preparing for his arrival.
He was placed on a specialized examination table, and various sensors and probes were attached to his head and body. The atmosphere was tense and focused, the scientists moving with a sense of urgency. They ran a battery of tests: EEG, MRI, CAT scans, blood work, genetic analysis – everything they could think of. Ibnor felt like a lab rat, poked and prodded, his mind a whirlwind of anxiety and confusion. He tried to focus on his breathing, to push down the rising panic, but the constant scrutiny and the invasive procedures were taking their toll.
This is a dangerous gamble, he thought, his heart pounding in his chest. He had agreed to cooperate, trusting that they would stick to their word: diagnostics only. But with each new test, each new instrument brought close to him, his composure frayed a little more. He watched the staff like a hawk, his eyes following their every move, especially when they neared him, taking his blood or adjusting the sensors on his head. He almost lost it when a scientist approached with a large syringe, his hand instinctively flinching back. He forced himself to remain still, to maintain the facade of cooperation, but inside, he was terrified.
In the separate observation area connected to the lab by a one-way mirror, Natasha, Clint, and the medical agent who had performed the initial scan watched the proceedings. Natasha's sharp eyes were fixed on Ibnor, and she noticed the subtle signs of his distress: the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes darted around the room, the almost imperceptible flinch when the scientist approached with the syringe.
"He's not handling this well," she murmured, her voice low, her eyes fixed on Ibnor as the scientists moved around him, attaching sensors.
Clint followed her gaze. "He's under a lot of pressure," he replied. "Being poked and prodded like that, not knowing what they're looking for…"
"It's more than that," Natasha countered, her voice barely a whisper. "He's terrified. But he's trying very hard to hide it." She paused, her expression thoughtful, her gaze momentarily drifting inward. A flicker of memory crossed her face—a sterile room, cold lights, probing questions, the feeling of being dissected, analyzed, owned. The Red Room. The memory was fleeting, a ghost of a feeling, but it was enough. She understood that kind of fear, the bone-deep terror of having your mind and body violated in the name of some greater purpose.
She quickly masked the emotion, her professional mask snapping back into place. Her gaze returned to Ibnor, but now there was a subtle shift in her expression, a hint of empathy beneath the cool exterior. It was almost imperceptible, but it was there. She saw not just a subject, but a person enduring something deeply traumatic.
"It's like he's afraid of what they might find," she continued, her voice regaining its usual professional tone, but with a subtle undercurrent of understanding. "Afraid of what they might take."
The medical agent from the interrogation room spoke up, oblivious to the internal turmoil Natasha was experiencing. "The portable scanner is good for preliminary scans, but this lab has far more sensitive equipment. We should be able to get a much clearer picture of his neural activity here. If there's something unusual going on, we'll find it."
Natasha's gaze remained on Ibnor, her expression neutral. If there's something unusual… or if there's something they'll create. The thought lingered, unspoken. She knew S.H.I.E.L.D., she knew its methods. Sometimes the search for answers could create more problems than it solves.
Hours passed. The scientists meticulously collected data, running complex analyses and comparing the results to extensive databases. Finally, the lead scientist approached the observation area, a thin folder in his hand. He looked tired but professional.
"We've completed the analysis," he announced.
Natasha, Clint, and the medical agent leaned forward, their expressions expectant.
"And?" Natasha prompted.
The scientist sighed. "Everything is… normal. Within standard human parameters. The EEG, MRI, CAT scans, blood work, genetic analysis… all unremarkable. There are no signs of any neurological abnormalities, no unusual genetic markers, nothing that would explain the initial fluctuation we saw on the portable scanner."
A heavy silence fell over the observation area.
"Are you sure?" Natasha asked, her brow furrowed.
"Positive," the scientist confirmed. "We've run the tests multiple times... There's nothing there."
The medical agent from the interrogation room nodded slowly. "Sometimes these things happen... perfectly normal."
Clint shook his head in disbelief. "So, we're back to square one. A ghost who knows our names, with no past and a perfectly normal brain."
Natasha's expression was grim. "Not quite. We still have the fact that he knows us. And he was present at a compromised S.H.I.E.L.D. operation. That's not a coincidence."
In another part of the facility, Agent Coulson sat in his office, reviewing reports on his tablet. There was a knock on the door, and Agent Hill entered.
"Agent Coulson," Hill said, her expression serious. "We have a situation."
"What is it, Agent Hill?" Coulson asked, looking up from his tablet.
"It's about the individual found with Barton and Romanoff," Hill replied. "We just received the final report from the extensive lab work."
Coulson's brow furrowed. "And?"
"Everything came back normal," Hill said, her voice laced with a hint of frustration. "All tests within standard human parameters. No anomalies, no unusual markers, nothing to explain his… situation."
Coulson's brow furrowed deeper. "But you said we had a situation."
"We do," Hill confirmed. "The scan didn't reveal anything unusual, but we've run every database we have access to – facial recognition, Interpol, even the most obscure black market databases. Nothing. He doesn't exist. He's a complete and utter ghost."
Coulson leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression on his face. "So, we have a man who seemingly materialized out of thin air, knows classified information, was present at a compromised operation, and yet, every test we run says he's perfectly ordinary."
"Exactly," Hill confirmed. "It's like he's a blank slate. But a blank slate that knows things he shouldn't."
"And Barton and Romanoff are still certain he knew them?" Coulson asked.
"Without a doubt," Hill replied. "They both confirmed he addressed them by their first names, as if they were old acquaintances."
"So what are our options?" Coulson asked, leaning back in his chair.
"We could detain him indefinitely," Hill said. "Keep him in a secure facility, study him. Try to understand what we're dealing with."
"That's not ideal," Coulson countered. "The scan came back clean. We have no legal basis for indefinite detention. It would raise… uncomfortable questions. And if he is just a normal human who somehow stumbled into our operation, keeping him locked up would be a gross overreaction."
"We could try to interrogate him further," Hill suggested. "Bring in a specialist, someone trained in extracting information."
"We've already tried that," Coulson reminded her. "He's sticking to the amnesia story. And even if he is lying, we don't know what he's hiding. Forcing the issue might only make things worse. It might push him to act, and we have no idea what his motivations are."
"There's one other option," Hill said, her voice hesitant.
"Which is?"
"Release him," Hill said. "Monitor him, of course. Track his every move. But let him go. See what he does. See who he contacts."
Coulson considered this for a moment, his brow furrowed. "That's a dangerous gamble, Agent Hill. If he's connected to something larger, releasing him could put countless lives at risk."
"It's a risk," Hill admitted. "But it might be the only way to get some answers. If he's connected to something larger, releasing him might draw them out. It might give us the information we need. And with no physical evidence from the scan, it's the option that creates the least… paperwork." She offered a small, wry smile.
Coulson sighed. "Inform Director Fury of all the options," he said. "This is his call. But I agree, indefinite detention without any real understanding of what we're dealing with is not a sustainable long-term strategy. And a prolonged interrogation with no new leads will only raise more flags. He paused, looking thoughtful. "Tell him… tell him I lean towards monitored release. But with extreme prejudice. We equip him with trackers, of course. And we keep him under constant surveillance. If he makes one wrong move, if he even looks like he's about to cause trouble, we bring him back in, no questions asked."
Back in the observation room, Natasha and Clint were now watching the monitors, showing Ibnor being escorted back to the holding cell after the tests were fully concluded and he was processed out of the lab.
"So, nothing," Clint said, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "After all that, he's just… normal."
"The tests say he is," Natasha replied, her eyes still fixed on the screen showing Ibnor being walked down the corridor. "But I still don't buy it. There's something he's not telling us."
Natasha and Clint exchanged a look before heading out of the observation room.