You guys are persistant huh? I told you that this is only a bait... But, really, my main focus is the other one.
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The hum of the fluorescent lights in Observation Room B was a stark counterpoint to the thrumming anxiety in Ibnor's chest. The sterile, impersonal room, designed for observation rather than conversation, amplified his unease. He sat on a cold metal chair, hands clasped tightly in his lap, striving for a composure he didn't feel. The one-way mirror on the far wall served as a constant reminder: he was being watched, analyzed, dissected.
The door hissed open, and Nick Fury entered, his black trench coat swirling around him with quiet authority. Agent Coulson trailed slightly behind, a silent sentinel. Fury's single, sharp eye fixed on Ibnor, assessing, cataloging. The gaze felt like a physical probe, invasive and unsettling.
Fury dispensed with pleasantries. He moved to the steel table in the center of the room, placing his hands flat on its surface. The casual gesture, almost dismissive, subtly closed the distance, creating an uncomfortable intimacy.
"Ibnor," Fury began, his voice low and gravelly, like worn granite. "We've been looking into your… situation. It's… unusual." The word hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. A slight tilt of Fury's head, a gesture of curiosity, felt more like a predator studying its prey.
system initialization
"You're a ghost," Fury continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "No past, no records, no digital footprint. You simply… appeared." He straightened, his gaze unwavering. "That tends to get our attention."
Ibnor swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He recognized the carefully constructed performance. Fury was a master manipulator, a puppeteer of the highest order. He had to choose his next words carefully.
"We've considered a few options," Fury said, his tone shifting to a conversational, almost friendly cadence—a calculated attempt to disarm. "We could release you," he offered, a slight shrug suggesting it was the least likely outcome. "But frankly, you'd be a loose end. You've seen things, you know things, even if you don't fully understand them. There are… interested parties who wouldn't appreciate your continued existence. We can't guarantee your safety out there."
A chill ran down Ibnor's spine. The implied threat was clear: release wasn't freedom; it was a death sentence.
Fury's voice hardened slightly. "Or we could keep you here. Run tests until we unravel this… mystery. But that could take years. Confinement, isolation… not exactly a desirable future." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. Release into a hostile world or slow decay in a S.H.I.E.L.D. black site. Neither option was palatable.
Ibnor's mind raced. He knew the MCU timeline, the key events, the looming threats. But the nagging doubt persisted: What if this isn't the MCU I know? The thought was a constant, unsettling undercurrent. Survival depended on adapting, regardless of the reality he found himself in.
Fury's posture subtly shifted, his tone softening a fraction—a calculated move that sharpened Ibnor's senses. This was the crux of the matter.
"But there's another option," Fury said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a confidential whisper. "You cooperate. You help us understand what's actually going on here—the why, the where, the when, and the how. Even ghosts have their origins." He straightened, his gaze locking onto Ibnor's. "In return, we offer protection, resources. The best minds in the world dedicated to your case. We'll help you find answers, maybe even a way back… wherever you came from."
Fury's offer hung in the air, a precarious lifeline in the swirling vortex of Ibnor's confusion. Cooperation. It was a loaded word, a Faustian bargain dressed in the guise of mutual benefit. He knew enough about S.H.I.E.L.D. from his… previous life… to understand the implications. Cooperation meant control. It meant being a subject of study, a tool to be used. But the alternatives were far worse.
"What kind of cooperation are we talking about?" Ibnor asked, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. He forced himself to meet Fury's gaze, refusing to betray his fear.
Fury's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. "Information, primarily. You know things you shouldn't. Details about our operations, about our personnel. Details that are… concerning." He paused, his gaze narrowing. "How did you know Agent Barton and Agent Romanoff's first names?"
Ibnor took a deep breath. He had rehearsed this in his mind, countless times. He had to walk a tightrope, revealing just enough to be believable without exposing the full, ludicrous truth.
"I… I don't know," he said, forcing a tremor into his voice. "I woke up in Budapest with… gaps in my memory. Fragments. Images… faces. Their names… they were just… there." He shrugged, trying to appear genuinely confused. "Like a dream I can't quite remember."
Fury's single eye remained fixed on him, scrutinizing every nuance of his expression. Coulson stood silently beside him, his presence a quiet, watchful pressure.
"Dreams can be revealing," Fury said, his voice low and measured. "Sometimes they show us things we've buried deep within our subconscious."
"Or things that aren't real," Ibnor countered, his voice barely a whisper.
Fury's expression remained unchanged. "Let's assume, for the sake of argument, that you're telling the truth. That you genuinely don't remember how you know these things. That still leaves the question of your presence at a compromised S.H.I.E.L.D. operation."
"Wrong place, wrong time," Ibnor repeated, the phrase tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Coincidences are rarely coincidental," Fury countered. "Especially in our line of work." He paused, leaning forward slightly. "We believe you were there for a reason, Ibnor. Consciously or unconsciously."
Ibnor remained silent, his mind racing. He couldn't afford to reveal anything about his true origins. It was too unbelievable, too dangerous. He had to play the amnesia card, even if it was a weak hand.
"What if I told you I wanted to help?" Ibnor said, his voice gaining strength. "What if I told you I wanted to understand what's happening to me as much as you do?"
Fury's lips curled into a genuine smile, a flash of white teeth against his dark skin. "That's what I was hoping to hear, Ibnor." He straightened, his posture relaxing slightly. "We can offer you resources, protection. Access to our best medical and scientific personnel. We can help you piece together your memories, understand your… condition."
"And in return?" Ibnor asked, his voice wary.
"In return," Fury said, his voice regaining its previous steeliness, "you tell us everything you remember. Every fragment, every image, every name. No matter how insignificant it may seem. You become an asset, Ibnor. A valuable asset."
Ibnor considered this for a moment. It was a dangerous game, but it was the only game he could play. He had to trust that he could control the narrative, that he could reveal just enough to satisfy them without exposing the truth.
"Alright," he said, his voice firm. "I'll cooperate."
Fury nodded, his single eye glinting with satisfaction. "Excellent. Agent Coulson will escort you to your new… accommodations. We'll begin the debriefing process immediately."
Coulson stepped forward, his expression neutral. "This way, Mr. Ibnor."
As Ibnor followed Coulson out of the observation room, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had just made a deal with the devil. He had bought himself some time, some protection, but at a steep price. He was now a pawn in a game he didn't fully understand, a game with stakes far higher than he could have imagined. As he walked down the sterile corridors of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, he knew one thing for certain: his life had just changed forever. And he had a sinking feeling that it was only the beginning.
The sterile white walls of his new quarters were a stark contrast to the grimy tunnels of Budapest. "Accommodations," Fury had called them, but they felt more like a gilded cage. A comfortable one, granted, with a decent bed, a small living area, and even a rudimentary gym, but a cage nonetheless. The ever-present surveillance cameras and the guards stationed outside his door served as constant reminders of his confinement.
Ibnor knew he had to play the game. He had to convince S.H.I.E.L.D. that he was a valuable asset, that his cooperation was worth their investment. His ultimate goal wasn't just survival; it was participation. He wanted to be a part of the grand narratives he knew so well, to witness the iconic moments firsthand, perhaps even to influence them.
The debriefings began almost immediately. He was subjected to hours of questioning, meticulously detailing every fragment of memory, every image, every name that surfaced. He carefully curated his responses, revealing just enough to pique their interest without giving away the full extent of his knowledge. He described scenes from the movies, battles, character interactions, but presented them as hazy visions, distorted by his supposed amnesia.
"I… I see a man in a metal suit," he would say, rubbing his temples as if struggling to recall the details. "He's flying… fighting… something… big. Blue energy… explosions…"
He mentioned names – Stark, Rogers, Thor – but always with a sense of uncertainty, as if he wasn't sure if they were real or just figments of his imagination. He even hinted at Thanos, describing a looming threat, a purple giant with a gauntlet, but framed it as a recurring nightmare, a source of deep anxiety.
S.H.I.E.L.D. lapped it up. They were desperate for any information, any lead, and Ibnor's fragmented memories, however vague, were the only tangible clues they had. They subjected him to further tests, psychological evaluations, even hypnosis sessions, trying to unlock the secrets hidden within his mind.
Ibnor played along, feigning confusion and frustration, allowing them to believe they were making progress. But he was always careful, always in control, revealing only what he wanted them to see.
The physical evaluations, however, were a different story. Ibnor was, by his own admission, an ordinary guy. He wasn't particularly athletic, and his hand-to-hand combat skills were limited to what he'd seen in movies. The S.H.I.E.L.D. training programs were a brutal awakening. He struggled to keep up, often lagging behind the other trainees, his body aching from the unfamiliar exercises and drills.
Later that evening, back in his "accommodations," Ibnor collapsed onto the edge of his bed, his muscles screaming in protest. He peeled off his sweat-soaked training shirt, wincing as he stretched his stiff shoulders. The room, while comfortable, felt sterile, impersonal. It was a far cry from the cramped apartment he'd left behind in… wherever he'd come from. He still couldn't quite bring himself to think of it as "home."
He glanced at the small training manual lying on his desk – S.H.I.E.L.D. Basic Combat Techniques. He'd been trying to cram as much as possible, but the practical application was proving far more challenging than he'd anticipated. He picked it up, flipping through the pages filled with diagrams of complex maneuvers and grappling techniques. It was like reading a foreign language.
He tossed the manual back onto the desk in frustration. He wasn't going to become Captain America overnight. He wasn't even going to become Hawkeye. He was just… Ibnor. An ordinary guy who'd somehow stumbled into an extraordinary situation.
He stood up and walked over to the small kitchenette, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. As he drank, he stared out the window at the cityscape beyond. Even from within the secure S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, he could see the familiar skyline of a major city, a stark reminder that he was truly in… their world.
He stood up and walked over to the small kitchenette, grabbing a bottle of water from the mini-fridge. As he drank, he stared out the window at the cityscape beyond. Even from within the secure S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, he could see the familiar skyline of a major city, a stark reminder that he was truly in… their world.
He turned from the window, his gaze sweeping across the room. It was sparsely decorated, functional, but undeniably S.H.I.E.L.D. issue. His eyes landed on a small drawer built into the desk. He walked over and pulled it open. Inside, neatly arranged, were a few items: a S.H.I.E.L.D. ID card bearing his name and a generic photo, a driver's license with the same information, and a sealed envelope containing a small stack of crisp bills.
As soon as his fingers brushed against the edge of the envelope, a strange sensation washed over him. A holographic interface shimmered into existence in his field of vision, a semi-transparent overlay that seemed to hover just in front of his eyes.
Money found… system initializing…
The words, written in a clean, futuristic font, hung in the air. Ibnor blinked, startled, but the interface remained. A progress bar appeared beneath the text, quickly filling to 100%.
System online.
Welcome to Acquisition Network…
Below the welcome message, a brief explanation appeared:
Acquisition Network is a secure transactional system. Using acquired currency, you can purchase various items, including but not limited to: Health Elixirs, Skill Compendiums, Kinetic Enhancers, and other beneficial augmentations.
Ibnor stared, dumbfounded. A shop system? Here? In the real world? This was… a game changer. This was the kind of thing that only happened in stories, in video games, not in… well, not in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Or whatever version of it this was.
He gingerly picked up the envelope, the holographic interface shifting and adjusting to remain within his field of vision. The amount inside wasn't substantial, just enough for basic necessities, but the implications were enormous. This wasn't just money; it was currency within a system, a means to acquire abilities, enhancements, perhaps even the skills he so desperately lacked.
He closed the drawer, the holographic display fading slightly but remaining active in the corner of his vision, a small icon representing his current balance. He paced the room again, his mind reeling. This changes everything.
Days turned into weeks. Ibnor's physical training continued, a grueling regimen that pushed him to his limits. He struggled, but he persevered, driven by a stubborn determination to prove himself. He focused on his core strength, his stamina, his agility. He wouldn't become a supersoldier, but he could become fit enough to be a valuable asset in other ways. And all this was boosted by his 'cheats'.
The training mat became his personal battleground. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes as he struggled through another set of burpees. The instructor, a stern-faced woman named Agent Diaz, barked instructions, her voice echoing through the training room.
"Faster, recruit! You're moving like you're wading through molasses!"
Ibnor gritted his teeth, pushing himself harder. His muscles burned, his lungs ached, but he refused to give up. He remembered the holographic interface, the Acquisition Network, the potential it held. He just needed to find the means to unlock it.
He also tried to find ways to get money, even betting on silly things like who could finish their food first in the cafeteria. One lunchtime, he found himself facing off against a particularly large agent named Johnson.
"Ten bucks says I finish this double cheeseburger before you finish that mountain of mashed potatoes," Ibnor declared, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Johnson chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. "You're on, kid. But you're going down."
A small crowd gathered, placing their own bets. Ibnor, despite his size disadvantage, employed a strategy of rapid consumption, dismantling the burger piece by piece. Johnson, meanwhile, was steadily but slowly working his way through the mashed potatoes. In the end, Ibnor emerged victorious, albeit slightly nauseous, adding another ten dollars to his Acquisition Network balance.
He knew the items in the Acquisition Network were expensive, and the small stipend S.H.I.E.L.D. provided wouldn't get him far. He needed more. He needed to be… resourceful. He started taking on extra tasks, favors for other agents, anything that could earn him a few extra dollars. He helped with paperwork, ran errands, even offered to proofread reports, leveraging his analytical skills to earn small sums.
He even started discreetly winning small sums in the occasional poker game in the off-duty hours. He wasn't a professional, but he had a knack for reading people, for calculating odds. He kept his winnings small, just enough to avoid attracting unwanted attention. One evening, after a particularly successful hand, an older agent named Davies leaned over to him.
"You've got a good poker face, kid," he said, a sly grin on his face. "But don't get too cocky. This isn't a game you want to play for high stakes."
Ibnor nodded, pocketing his winnings.
"Thanks for the advice, Agent Davies," he replied, keeping his tone respectful.
With the meager funds he accumulated, Ibnor made his first purchases through the Acquisition Network. The holographic interface flickered to life as he accessed the menu. He scrolled through the options, his eyes widening at the sheer variety of items available. He started with small Health Elixirs to aid his recovery after training, allowing him to push himself harder and more frequently. The next morning, after a particularly brutal workout, he activated the interface and purchased a Basic Health Elixir. As soon as the transaction was confirmed, a small vial materialized in his hand. He uncorked it and drank the glowing blue liquid. A warm sensation spread through his body, soothing his aching muscles. He felt noticeably refreshed, ready to tackle the day's training.
He then invested in a few Kinetic Enhancers, low-level augmentations that subtly improved his reflexes and coordination. He purchased the first tier enhancement. The transaction was smoother than the last one. The system had already remembered his payment details. With a small vibration on his hand, the enhancement was applied. During sparring practice, he found himself reacting faster, dodging blows that would have connected before.
"Whoa, nice reflexes, Ibnor!" exclaimed a fellow trainee, after Ibnor dodged a swift punch.
The changes weren't drastic, but they were noticeable. He was recovering faster, moving quicker, reacting more instinctively. Agent Diaz, ever the observant instructor, noticed the improvement.
"You're getting faster, Ibnor," she commented during a hand-to-hand combat drill. "Keep it up."
The results were starting to show. While he was still far from being a top-tier combatant, he was no longer the clumsy, out-of-place civilian he had been. He was becoming… capable. He was becoming a valuable asset, not just for his information, but for his steadily improving abilities. The training and the enhancements were working in tandem, transforming him, bit by bit, into something more than ordinary. He was still playing the game, still walking the tightrope, but now, he had a few more tools at his disposal.