Finally happy to have solidified a direction, I would need to go about the work of materializing my plan. I decided that I needed to write down more of what I knew on the board. Without Wikipedia or Google to fill in the gaps, hell, without GPS to even find my way around the city (though given how advanced some of the tech here seemed to be, ARPANET might have evolved faster, or maybe NSFNET was already rolling out to universities)—I'd need to do this the hard way.
I'd need to research. I'd already made several assumptions based on what I'd read in the real world, and those were a dangerous thing. Sure, the consequences may not be big now, just some minor humiliation, but I didn't want to end up bleeding out in an alley because I assumed something about the capacities
I grabbed a marker and divided the lower section of my whiteboard into 2 areas of research: Book Knowledge and Street Knowledge.
Under Book Knowledge, the list was straightforward enough: libraries, newspaper archives, paper maps, whatever public records I could access. The newspaper archives would be particularly valuable. The value was not just for the mundane details of crime reporting and business tips, but for any hints about what had happened to the Corporation and similar shadowy organizations that operated in the margins. I'd also want to get my hands on some technical journals. I needed to see if USENIX existed yet, check for ACM publications, hunt down IEEE Transactions on circuits and systems, or maybe find copies of Electronics Letters or EDN magazine all to get a sense of where the research community was heading.
Under Street Knowledge, the requirements were more dangerous but equally essential. Eventually, I'd need to find a stool pigeon, someone with actual underworld connections I could pay, bribe, or provide some service to in exchange for information about how things really lay. Getting that baseline understanding of how things actually worked would be essential before I could even think about putting out feelers for intel on the LI factory.
I also scrabbled Find a fence under the Street Knowledge header. I needed a bit of "walking around cash" as my father used to say. Suppressing the surge of emotion when thinking of my family, I pushed myself back to the task at hand. In the main ops room in the bunker, there were a lot of assorted papers. Hopefully one of them could point me to a weapons dealer, a fence, possibly even the Tinkerer himself.
I flipped to a clean page and wrote OPPOSITION RESEARCH at the top in block letters. If I was going to survive in this world, I needed to know the players. Both the ones who might help me and the ones who might want to kill me.
Starting with what I remembered, I jotted down:
PHINEAS MASON - "THE TINKERER"
Brilliant inventor/engineerOperates out of NYCEquipment supplier to low-level criminalsUses salvaged parts (keeps costs down)Has robot assistant called "Toy"Built gear for: Beetle, Scorpion, Big Wheel, Rocket Racer, othersPassword for criminal clients: "I've got a radio that just can't carry a tune"Operates legitimate repair shop as frontOld, physically frailHates superheroesSon: Rick Mason ("The Agent") - some kind of mercenary/agent for hire?Rick involved in Costa Brava situation (revolution? coup?)
I paused, tapping the pen against the notebook. Truth was, I didn't know much about Rick Mason beyond the basics. He was apparently some sort of covert operative, but I couldn't remember who he worked for or what his exact deal was. All I knew was that he'd been involved in some situation in Costa Brava. It might have been a revolution or a coup of some sort and that made him someone I definitely wanted to avoid. Rick had also tangled with Chinaforce, which meant he was pretty handy in a dustup. From what I remembered, he looked normal on panel, but at least one member of Chinaforce had enhanced strength, so he was clearly super soldier adjacent.
Speaking of the Masons, I'd probably want to steer clear of both father and son. My idea of being this underworld provider would technically infringe on some of Phineas's marketshare, and I doubted the old man would appreciate the competition. Plus, having a son who was apparently some kind of professional spy meant the Tinkerer had connections I couldn't begin to guess at. Better to stay off their radar entirely until I had enough resources to either negotiate as an equal or defend myself if things went sideways. I'd have to bargain with him, there was no possible way to engage in more kinetic actions with him without getting mulched. Ah well, cross that bridge when we come to it.
Looking at the sun, it was still some time before noon, and if I was making obvious mistakes like that, I probably hadn't gotten enough sleep. However, it'd probably make sense to try to find a library about now, to get something productive done and get the ball rolling on my longterm plans. Walking out of the offices in the upper part of the warehouse notebook in hand, I thought about what I had seen earlier, the Harlequin Hitman's mask still in my mind. I had shot guns a few times before in my life, mostly in a controlled setting at the range and had been planning on buying a Glock 19. I figured that I should have enough time to hoof it to a library after checking myself out on one of the Glocks, and concealed carrying it, just to be safe. The child in me wanted to grab one of the more exotic options, but if I got in a jam where I needed to use a gun, I'd need it to be one I was familiar with.
Walking up to the elevator doors upstairs, I noticed a similar console to the one at the sewer entry. I groaned as I realized what must have happened - when I'd skimmed through that build script earlier, I'd missed a crucial detail. The deployment process hadn't just updated the bunker's door controller. It had quietly pushed my firmware fixes and new password to ALL the security terminals in the facility.
The script's comments had mentioned "synchronizing security protocols across all security terminals" but I'd been too focused on the main door to pay attention. Of course there would be multiple terminals - you'd want independent access controls for different entry points. Basic operational security.
I quickly tapped in the password I had set earlier, shaking my head at my own oversight. At least my accidental thoroughness had worked in my favor.
After another boneshaking 5 minutes, I got out and walked into the armory. Moving towards the rack of handguns, I grabbed one of the Glocks, and instantly understood what the red "C4" designation meant. This Glock was battered as hell. The slide had deep gouges along both sides, the grip was cracked in two places, and when I pulled it back to check the chamber, the action felt gritty and loose. Whatever "C4" stood for in their system, it clearly meant "barely functional." No wonder Hughes had left these behind when he'd cleaned out everything else, they were probably more dangerous to the user than anything the user pointed it at.
I quickly checked the other sidearms just as a sanity check. The plasma beam handgun looked pristine, the .30 caliber machine pistol was clearly well-maintained, and even the gyrojet pistol seemed to be in excellent condition. Just my luck to grab one of the two damaged sidearms first, and the only 2 damaged sidearms were the only ones I was even somewhat qualified to shoot.
I picked up the needle pistol instead, turning it over in my hands. It was surprisingly lightweight but not that compact. The safety was a simple sliding switch behind the trigger guard, and the loading mechanism was straightforward enough: a small magazine that slotted into the grip held what looked like thin metallic darts. Best of all, firing tiny needles shouldn't have much recoil, so I wouldn't need much familiarization with it. Perfect for someone who needed protection but wasn't looking for a running gunfight.
I didn't want to carry my newly acquired pistol loose in my jacket pocket though, and the few utility belts on the walls looked too chunky. I decided to take another gamble and look through the armory desk, in hopes that Hughes may have forgotten something, or stashed something for himself. Jackpot! I found a rather battered leather shoulder holster. While I had never used one before, I rapidly adjusted it to my body,and slipped my needle pistol inside. After tossing my jacket over, I went to the showers and looked in a mirror. The outline wasn't too obvious, and I wasn't going to be doing anything requiring me to pass a pat-down today
After grabbing my notebook and yet another bracing (read: rough) elevator ride back upstairs, I counted my money. I had about $50 in bills. That should be enough for the subway. Walking out of the warehouse, I strode down the street.
Things were much the same as they were before, people rushing by, storefronts closed, but the group of young men I had seen a few days ago were notably absent. After walking for 3 blocks, I finally stumbled across a subway station. I needed to get a map, but my internal sense of direction was usually pretty good.
Now that I was at the station, things were pretty much as I expected in mid 80's NYC. Slightly dilapidated platform with peeling paint and grimy tiles, people rushing past in heavy coats and scarves, older ticket machines that dispensed tokens with a satisfying mechanical clunk. The familiar scent of brake dust and urban decay hung in the air. I would have thought I was back in my original dimension and time if not for the fact that the machine dispensed a subway token and there was a sleek black advertisement mounted on the platform wall that made my skin crawl.
The ad was all onyx black background with crisp white text: "A moment of reckoning has arrived for America." Below that, smaller text read: "Our allies depend on American strength. Our adversaries test American resolve. Too many have forgotten what strength means and why we need it. We remember. Stane International builds the tools America needs to remain strong. On the factory floor, in the boardroom, across the globe, we build to protect what matters. The future belongs to those who prepare for it."
At the bottom, in that same clean corporate font: "STANE INTERNATIONAL - BUILDING TOMORROW'S STRENGTH TODAY" with Obadiah Stane's signature scrawled underneath. Below that, smaller recruitment text: "Join our team of visionary engineers. Build the future. Competitive salaries, cutting-edge projects, and the chance to serve your country. Apply today."
The ad oozed psychological manipulation. Every word was carefully chosen.Reckoning, strength, protect what matters. Classic fear-then-solution marketing, wrapped in patriotic rhetoric. I could practically see Stane's playbook: make people feel unsafe, then position yourself as their protector.
I vaguely remembered that a bunch of Stark Industries staff had quit after the hostile takeover, so Stane was bleeding talent and institutional knowledge. The recruitment pitch was pure damage control.
Shaking my head to clear the metaphorical slime from corporate sociopaths, I turned away from the ad and studied the subway map on the wall. Time to focus on immediate problems instead of getting sucked into Stane's psychological warfare.
I studied the subway map, weighing my options. While I knew who the local crime boss in Harlem was, Boss Morgan, from reading Heroes for Hire, I was pretty sure I wouldn't be able to get to him by walking around asking for him by name. That seemed like a fast track to a shallow grave. What might work better was hitting the main library downtown first, then trying Josie's Bar in Hell's Kitchen to find a stoolie. The main branch would have better resources than the Harlem library, and going to a sketchy bar seemed safer than asking around for criminals by name. At least there I'd be less likely to end up fitted for a pair of cement shoes.
Looking at the ads, things were mostly familiar territory - the usual subway detritus of public service announcements about reporting suspicious packages and some generic ad for a bank offering "competitive rates on loans!" But then the Marvel universe reality check hit me square in the face.
A bright orange poster caught my eye first: featuring The Thing's grinning rocky face promoting what looked like a peanut brittle candy bar. Funnily enough, it was manufactured by Mars, which evidently hadn't been butterflied out of existence. The sheer cognitive dissonance of Ben Grimm as a corporate spokesperson almost made me laugh, but it also drove home how far from Kansas I really was.
Next to it hung a more subdued advertisement that made me do a double-take. Professional blues and grays, talking about education scholarships and civil rights advocacy - the Taylor Foundation. Huh. Night Thrasher wouldn't be on the street until the late 80's, but it was good to know that the foundation was still active.
The train lurched slightly as we hit a curve, and I forced myself to look away from the ads. No point dwelling on timeline details when I had immediate survival to worry about. But the reminder of just how different this world was from mine settled in my stomach like a lead weight.
Walking up to the library, the sight of the lions made me smile, and the weight of my displacement that had dogged me since the subway ride lifted out of my stomach.
Patience and Fortitude sat exactly where they should be, carved marble faces unbothered by the chaos of the city or one dimensionally trans-located man. I climbed the steps slowly, letting my hand trail along Patience's base. The marble was warm and solid. For the first time since I'd woken up in that alley, something felt right.
Walking into the library felt even better if possible. The grand marble entrance opened into Astor Hall - high barrel-vaulted ceiling,marble walls, twin staircases curving up to higher floors. It was nice to know that some things were constants.
Approaching the information desk in the center of the hall, I kept my voice low.
"Excuse me, could you point me toward the newspaper section?"
The librarian looked up from her work. She had silver hair, wire-rimmed glasses and the kind of efficient smile librarians perfected.
"Current newspapers are in the Wallace Periodical Room, just through that archway."
She gestured toward the south side of the hall.
"Room 108. You'll find the most recent issues displayed on racks."
"Thank you."
The periodicals room was quieter than the main hall, with tall windows letting in afternoon light. Wooden racks held newspapers in neat rows - the Times, the Post, Wall Street Journal, the Daily Bugle. There, mixed in with the mainstream publications, Defense Industry Weekly caught my eye. I recognized a name from one of the sub-headings: "Deterrence Research Corporation: Lost at sea?" I flipped to the article titled "Post-Magnum DRC: Corporate Resurrection or Slow-Motion Collapse?" The opening paragraph definitely snapped me out of casual browsing mode.
"Nearly a decade has passed since the South American biochemical weapons scandal that cost Deterrence Research Corporation its founder and CEO Moses Magnum, yet the company continues to struggle with the fundamental question: what is DRC without its notorious architect?"
I kept reading, my interest growing with each paragraph. According to the article, Magnum had "disappeared in 1975 following the exposure of illegal human testing operations" but had made a "dramatic reappearance in Japan four years later, where he threatened to sink the entire nation before apparently perishing in the Kuril Islands explosion." The current CEO, Ivor Carlson, was described as maintaining "the company's amoral business model" but failing to provide strategic direction.
What really caught my attention was the description of DRC's recent struggles. The article mentioned they had lost a major Navy contract to Baintronics, and quoted a defense analyst saying, "They're rudderless. Magnum was a monster, but he was a monster with a plan. Carlson is just trying to keep the lights on." Even more interesting was the mention of DRC's "alleged attempt at industrial espionage" that "ended in spectacular failure when a team of corporate infiltrators was caught in Baintronics' Seattle facility."
A snicker almost escaped me as I read about Moses Magnum's corporate legacy being discussed like he was just another failed CEO instead of a supervillain who'd tried to destroy Japan with earthquake machines. But the amusement faded quickly as reality set in.
I thought about that DRC railgun prototype sitting in the Corporation's armory downstairs. If DRC was as desperate as the article suggested, they might pay for its return through the right intermediary, just so they'd have something good to talk about. Getting a prototype back was pretty small potatoes, but to me, it sounded like they needed any win, no matter how small.
Flipping through the rest of the magazine, I found an article about Hammer Industries selling three HI-2400 "Atlas" cargo aircraft to the Saudis. A sidebar mentioned Justin Hammer's personal use of one as a flying palace, complete with crystal chandeliers and marble flooring. The maintenance requirements were apparently brutal. Twenty flight hours between major inspections was insanity. I briefly considered the supply chain opportunities before remembering that Hammer kept supervillains like Blacklash and the Beetle on retainer. Better to steer clear of that particular business.
Another piece mentioned "Oscorp's biotechnology patents pending regulatory review." Norman Osborn was supposed to be dead right now, so the company was probably being run by the board of directors in his absence. I wondered idly what would happen to the stock price when the "deceased" founder inevitably made his dramatic return. I remembered that old bromide about markets remaining irrational longer then you can stay solvent. Whatever happened, it'd probably be silly.
This magazine was exactly the kind of current intelligence I needed, but I felt like I could glean more from the past. I needed to get to the Periodicals Room on the third floor for the microfilm archives and older newspaper collections.
Taking the marble stairs up to the third floor, I found myself in the Periodicals Room, a vast space with long wooden tables and the classic green-shaded reading lamps. The microfilm readers lined one wall, their viewing screens glowing softly in the subdued lighting. Card catalogs filled with periodical holdings stretched along the opposite wall.
I approached the reference desk where a middle-aged librarian with wire-rimmed glasses looked up from cataloging work.
"I need to access newspaper archives, specifically the New York Times from about two years back, September 1982," I said.
"Microfilm collection is in the cabinets behind the readers," she replied, gesturing toward the wall of metal filing cabinets.
"Times is organized chronologically. You'll need to sign the usage log."
A sense of disorientation hit me again. In a world where Dr.Horton had built a functioning android with AI in the 1940's, I had assumed microfilm had been replaced, but the 616's schizo tech struck again. I wrote down in my notebook, "World outside my Window". I wanted to see how far that effect went, and how advancements trickled down now that I was in a fully realized universe, not just viewing it on-panel.
While looking through the microfilm spools on the viewer I was distracted from my browsing for info on the LI facility. Ablaring New York Times front page caught my eye as it scrolled past on the reader's screen.
"GIANT ROBOT RAMPAGE DEVASTATES LONG ISLAND - Stark International Project Goes Haywire; Avengers Called In."
Red Ronin. Jesus, that had actually happened here. And looking at the details...
I adjusted the microfilm reader's focus and found myself still processing the implications. The article laid out everything: the robot's origins as an anti-Godzilla weapon built through a joint project between Stark International and Japanese engineers.
Wait. Anti-Godzilla weapon? I paused, re-reading that section on the glowing screen. Godzilla hadn't been actively retconned out due to licensing issues? That was interesting, and had some interesting implications for the universe I found myself in. Pulling out my trusty notebook, I wrote down "Check on retcons". If I linked up with the right source, I could find out something. Nightshade had used Storm as a proxy to rob a helicarrier. I forgot the details of the arc, but it was a retcon, so it would be a good indicator to ask around about that.
Even though this Red Ronin incident was a while back, it provided some interesting insight into Stark's security lapses. Dr. Earl Cowan had managed to single-handedly steal a 400-foot war machine from what was supposed to be a "secure" facility. People working on these projects didn't seem to have much oversight. Colleagues had noticed his paranoid behavior and bomb shelter obsession, but nothing was done until it was too late. Some of those security weaknesses could very well be applicable to the current Stane Long Island plant.
What really caught my attention were the tensions between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the U.S. government that were bleeding through the official statements. Representative Kemp's comment about "paying for the privilege of being terrorized by our own defense contractors" and Henry Gyrich's pointed remarks about oversight showed serious friction. A Coast Guard commander's barely veiled criticism of S.H.I.E.L.D. was particularly telling. When military officers were openly questioning a UN agency's competence to reporters, that suggested deeper institutional conflicts.
I advanced the microfilm to a Daily Bugle edition from about a year ago and saw what looked like a puff piece on Obadiah Stane. Stane's face smirked at me from the screen with the headline "DEFENSE GIANT EXPANDS: Stane International's Bold New Vision." Getting into the piece however proved my assumptions wrong. Ben Urich had thrown him a few good curveballs, and had managed to get that smug oily facade to crack more than a bit. The headline must have been mandated by Jameson.
What caught my attention wasn't Stane's boasting about military contracts or his flip dismissal of Tony Stark as "a drunk and a loser." It was the moment when Urich pressed him about the construction at the Long Island facility. Stane had gotten defensive, almost paranoid, when asked about Building 7's new sub-basement and the reduced security staff. His controlled mask had slipped just enough to reveal useful details: revoked keycards for former employees, perimeter radar coverage, camera networks, motion sensors. The real tell was when Urich mentioned rumors about former Stark employees Morley and Clytemnestra Erwin meeting with venture capitalists about funding a new technology startup, potentially with Stark's involvement. The tone of Stane's responses had gotten a lot more aggressive. He threatened legal action against anyone violating their NDAs.
Wait, that didn't make sense with my timeline. I thought Circuits Maximus had been founded after Secret Wars, when Rhodes returned from Battleworld. But according to this year-old article, the Erwins were already shopping for investors back then. Either my comic book knowledge was off, or the company had been in development longer than I'd realized. That could mean Tony's recovery and return to the tech world was happening on a different schedule than I'd expected.
Most importantly, Stane had confirmed there was something worth protecting in that new underground facility. The timeline worked too. This interview was from a year ago, which meant that sub-basement construction should be complete by now. Whatever Stane had been so eager to hide was probably operational.
Looking at the clock on the wall, it was around 2 PM. I could start heading over to Josie's Bar now, or I could get more research done. I decided it was more important to learn about this universe. I had gotten newspaper sources, now it was time to look for technical journals.
I approached the reference desk again.
"Where would I find IEEE publications and other technical journals?"
"Current technical journals are here in Periodicals," the librarian replied, "but for older back issues, you'll need to go down to the Research Collections in the basement. Take the staff elevator by the card catalogs. They'll have bound volumes of IEEE Transactions and other engineering publications. You'll need to fill out a call slip."
The basement Research Collections was a different world entirely. It was climate-controlled, with harsh fluorescent lighting and metal shelving that stretched from floor to ceiling. A security desk by the elevator required me to sign in and show ID. The clerk, a serious-looking man in his fifties, directed me to the bound periodical section.
"IEEE publications are in Section Q, over there," he said, pointing to a distant corner.
"You'll need to use the bound volumes. No photocopying without permission, and all materials stay in the room."
What I found made my eyes widen. Buried in a 1977 bound volume of IEEE Transactions on Energy Conversion was a paper titled "Advanced Metallic Alloy Energy Storage Systems for High-Performance Applications" by Dr. S. Procházka of Stark International's Advanced Materials Division. The abstract alone was fascinating: some kind of exotic metallic alloy that could store enormous amounts of electrical energy through novel electrochemical processes. 2,100 Wh/kg energy density with 85% charge retention after thousands of cycles.
This had to be related to the Mark IV Iron Man armor's power system. For perspective, the absolute best lithium-ion batteries from my timeline hit 700 Wh/kg. Most practical ones topped out around 250-300 Wh/kg. Stark had achieved 2,100 Wh/kg in 1978.
The paper also referenced another Stark publication: "Micro-Scale Photovoltaic Collection Arrays for Integrated Power Systems" by Dr. Maria Espinosa, describing solar panels with 70% efficiency, compared to the 22% peak from my timeline's cutting-edge technology. The combination made sense: ultra-efficient solar collection paired with incredibly dense energy storage. No wonder Iron Man could pull off the stunts he did.
I made a mental note to track down Dr. Santos's solar panel paper, and it led me down a rabbit hole. That paper referenced a work buried in the computational modeling section: "Efficiency calculations performed using a CPU based on the R-1000 instruction set architecture, detailed in 'A Novel Reduced Instruction Set Computing Architecture for Scientific Applications,' IEEE Computer Architecture Letters, Vol. 15, 1972."
Wait. 1972? That was impossibly early for RISC computing. In my timeline, those concepts wouldn't emerge until the late 1970s with IBM's 801 project. I had to find that paper.
Another twenty minutes of searching through the computer science journals, and there it was. As I scanned the author list, my eyes widened. George Radin and John Cocke from IBM's Thomas J. Watson Research Center were listed as the lead authors. I knew those names, in my timeline, they were the creators of the IBM 801, the foundational RISC architecture. But here they were, publishing similar concepts five years earlier.
The real shock came when I saw the third author: Dr. Reed Richards, contributing to the "Theoretical Performance Analysis" section.
Looking at the abstract and technical details, this was essentially RISC computing principles.Simplified instruction sets, load-store architecture,and extensive register usage,but published years before it should have existed. Dr.Richards' contribution was the theoretical framework analyzing why these design choices would work, using mathematical models for instruction pipeline efficiency and performance prediction that employed queueing theory and statistical analysis techniques.
I remembered that the Eaglestar software from the Corporation bunker had listed "R-1000/R-2000" among its supported architectures. So at least some research institutions and specialized companies had built processors implementing this open standard ISA, even if mainstream industry had largely ignored it in favor of pursuing increasingly complex CISC designs.
I was about to dive deeper and try to figure out some details about industry adaption(as well as attempting to calculate Dr.Richard's H-Index) when I caught sight of the clock. 5:03 PM. I'd gotten completely engrossed in my reading and lost track of time. If I was going to scope out Josie's Bar before the crowd showed up, I needed to move now.
I quickly grabbed my notebook and headed for the exit. The technical deep-dive would have to wait—right now, I needed to focus on finding my way into New York's criminal underworld.
Walking out of the library, after waving goodbye to the librarian, I cracked my neck. Being hunched over reading was fine. It was the early afternoon, with the sidewalks clustered with people leaving work. I blended into the crowd, walking towards the nearby station.
The subway back to Hell's Kitchen was uneventful, yet comforting. It was nice to know the evening commute crush was much the same in New York across all dimensions. Hopping off the train, I looked around. I was about 4 blocks north from the Corporation warehouse/bunker. Hell's Kitchen stretched before me in the dying light, showing all the signs of urban decay with cracked sidewalks, grimy storefronts, and the skeletons of stalled development projects looming overhead. Steam rose from manholes while the smell of cooking mixed with exhaust from buses grinding toward the Lincoln Tunnel. I was so busy observing, I promptly forgot that I had no idea where Josie's was, and Hell's Kitchen wasn't the best neighbourhood to be lost in.
I stopped to retrace my steps, realizing I'd wandered off the main drag onto a side street with significantly less foot traffic. The few working streetlights cast long shadows between the tenements, and the distant rumble of traffic seemed muffled here.
"Hey there, friend."
I turned to see two men emerging from an alley. The taller one was a skinny black guy with close-cropped hair and the loose swagger of someone who'd been drinking. His shorter, stockier companion was white and bald, looking more sober but following his partner's lead.
"You look a little lost, college boy," the tall one continued, words slightly slurred.
"Name's Turk. This here's Grotto. We're what you might call... local tour guides."
I probably looked exactly like what I was—a skinny black guy in dirty clothes who'd taken a wrong turn. Easy pickings.
"For a small fee," Grotto added nervously.
"Everything you got, actually."
"Come on, college boy, don't make this hard," Turk said, his alcohol-fueled confidence kicking in as he lunged forward.
I fumbled for the needle pistol, the draw a complete mess as my hand caught on the fabric. Turk crashed into me and we went down in a tangle of limbs. I finally got the gun free and jammed it hard into his ribs.
"Don't fucking move," I gasped, both of us breathing hard on the pavement.
Turk froze, suddenly much more sober.
"Whoa, whoa. No need for that, pal."
Grotto backed away, hands up.
"We was just being friendly."
As I caught my breath, still pressed against Turk with the needle gun digging into his side, I couldn't help but think that this was a more literal run-in with the criminal element than I'd hoped for. I'd put "find street contacts" on my to-do list, not "get tackled by said contacts in alley." But looking at Turk's suddenly respectful expression and Grotto's nervous fidgeting, I realized I'd accomplished my goal anyway.
If my comic book knowledge was right, Turk Barrett was surprisingly well-connected for a recurring Daredevil punching bag. The man had worked for everyone from Eric Slaughter to the Zodiac Cartel, somehow always managing to land on his feet despite an almost supernatural ability to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Most importantly, he currently worked for the Kingpin, which meant he had access most street criminals could only dream of. Right now, with a gun pressed against his ribs, he seemed very motivated to be helpful.
Turk had survived two decades in NYC's underworld through sheer cockroach-like persistence. That roach-like acumen was exactly what I needed on my side right now