Groggily sprinting over to the command room, nearly tripping myself as I slammed my shoulder on the doorframe, I slid to a halt. I noticed one of the monitoring screens I hadn't paid attention to before and had been entirely off was flashing with a red hazard symbol and amber text scrolling across a black CRT display.
Code:SEISMIC DETECTION SYSTEM -
ALERT 03:17:15 EST 05/10/84
ANOMALY DETECTED - SECTOR 7-NE
DISTANCE: 1.2KM FROM ORIGIN
MAGNITUDE: 0.8 LOCAL SCALE
DURATION: 00:00:47
STATUS: MONITORING
PRESS ANY KEY TO ACKNOWLEDGE
Probably just subway maintenance work. Maybe they set off a small charge to clear debris or break up old concrete. The duration was under a minute, which seemed about right for a controlled blast and the settling afterwards. At 3 AM, there'd be no commuters to worry about and minimal noise complaints from surface dwellers. Perfect time for the kind of work that required explosives.
I pressed space and enjoyed the blissful silence, the alarm cut off mid-wail.
I walked back to the bunk room, grabbed my notebook and scrawled a reminder: Look at sensor logs and adjust sensitivity to account for maintenance. I'd take a look at that once I got back tomorrow.
Checking my watch - 3:17 AM - I slumped into my bunk and rolled over, pulling the thin blanket over my head. I'd look into tweaking the sensitivity of whatever system this was after the arms deal.
Waking up at 9:00 AM I decided to make an early start of things. After pulling on my holster, I grabbed the sports bags one at a time,and hauled them over to the cargo elevator. I was in the middle of unpacking them on the loading dock when I realized I didn't account for how the hell I was going to call a taxi. I smacked my forehead. I was so used to the ubiquity of cell phones in my birth time period, I had forgotten about the lack of them. Leaving my bags inside, I dashed out of the warehouse to look for a payphone.
3 minutes of sprinting later, I found a payphone outside a corner deli and flipped through the yellowed phonebook chained to the booth. After calling Yellow Cab, I gave them my cross streets - 9th Avenue and 42nd Street.
"How long is it for a pickup?" I asked, checking my watch.
"Twenty, maybe thirty minutes," came the bored dispatcher's voice. "Traffic's heavy this morning."
I hung up and looked around, getting my bearings. I was only about six blocks from Josie's, maybe a fifteen-minute walk on a normal day. Under different circumstances, I'd travel by shank's mare- save the cab fare and get some exercise.
But three heavy duffel bags stuffed with weapons? That was a different story entirely. Even with the athletic bags trying to look innocent, carrying that much weight would make me walk like I was hauling something valuable. In this neighborhood, walking funny with oversized bags was like wearing a neon sign that said "please mug me."
Before I started my walk back to the warehouse, I dropped into the deli and grabbed a few bagels. I hadn't eaten anything for a while, and I needed something in my stomach.
I wasn't stupid enough to call a taxi directly to the warehouse. That was the kind of mistake that got people noticed by all the wrong types. Instead, I'd arranged for the pickup at an apartment building three blocks away - close enough to walk with the bags, far enough to avoid any connections on the part of the taxi driver.
The walk over gave me time to think through my cover story. Gym equipment was always solid - New Yorkers moved weird stuff around the city all the time, and nobody questioned a guy hauling some weights. If pressed, I'd say I was moving some gym equipment for a friend.
I positioned myself on the corner at 10:25, three duffel bags at my feet, trying to look like just another guy waiting for a ride. The morning foot traffic provided good cover, and I kept my head on a swivel, watching for both the taxi and anyone who might be taking too much interest in me.
Right on schedule, a Yellow Cab pulled up to the curb. The driver (middle-aged with a Mets cap) popped the trunk and helped me load the bags.
"So what's in the bags?" he asked as we hit a red light. "Feels like you're moving a gym."
I shifted uncomfortably. "Just some old exercise equipment I'm giving to a buddy who lives near Josie's. Figured why let it collect dust in my place when he could actually use it."
The cabbie's eyes flicked over me again, taking in my lean frame. "You don't really look like the lifting type, no offense."
"None taken. I'm more of a runner," I said, which wasn't entirely untrue. I'd certainly been running quite a bit recently. "My roommate was the one with the weight obsession. When he moved out, he left all this stuff behind."
"Tell me about it," the driver said, accelerating as the light turned green. "My brother-in-law's garage is full of exercise crap his wife bought on late-night TV. Probably spent more on that junk than my car's worth."
I nodded along, relieved the conversation was moving away from specifics about what was actually in the bags. "Yeah, seemed a shame to just throw it away when I knew someone who could use it."
"Good on you," the cabbie said, turning onto the street that would take us to Josie's. "Not many people think about their friends like that these days."
After paying the cabbie and unloading my bags, I hauled my bags around the back of Josie's. The alley behind the bar was narrow and grimy, with overflowing dumpsters and the lingering smell of stale beer and cigarettes. Broken glass crunched under my feet as I made my way past a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. A slightly battered Chevy G20 sat parked against the brick wall, engine ticking as it cooled. Through the driver's side window, I could see Grotto slumped in the seat, half-asleep with his head tilted back.
I rapped on the window. "Good morning. I'm here with the equipment we discussed."
Grotto shook himself awake, blinking owlishly. "Jesus, what time is it?" He checked his watch. "Shit, you're early. I'll get the back opened up." He climbed out, stretching and yawning. "Turk's inside if you want to grab a drink while we wait. Deal ain't supposed to go down until noon."
The back doors of the van creaked open, revealing a cargo area lined with old blankets and what looked like moving pads. Together, we hoisted the three duffel bags inside, the weight of the rifles making the van's suspension groan slightly.
"I'm headed inside," I said, gesturing toward the bar's back entrance. "We've got a bit before we get going."
The rear entrance led directly into Josie's main room through a short hallway that reeked of industrial disinfectant and stale smoke. The bar itself was exactly what I'd expected from Hell's Kitchen and from what I'd seen in the comics - a dive in the truest sense of the word. Dim lighting from a handful of neon beer signs cast everything in sickly colors. The floor was sticky under my feet, and most of the vinyl booth seating was cracked and patched with duct tape. A jukebox in the corner played something that might have been country music, though it was hard to tell through the static.
Turk sat hunched over the bar nursing a Budweiser, looking like he'd been there for hours. When he spotted me, he raised his bottle in greeting.
"Well, well. Early bird catches the worm, right?" He gestured to the empty stool next to him. "Grab a seat. We got time to kill."
I slid onto the stool, noting how the bartender (a heavyset woman with graying blond hair,presumably the titular Josie) barely glanced in my direction. Good. The kind of place where people minded their own business.
"So," I said, searching for small talk that wouldn't sound forced, "how about those Mets?"
Turk snorted. "What Mets? They're playing like they're still in spring training. Lost twelve of their last fifteen games." He took a deep pull from his beer. "Grotto here thinks they got a shot at the playoffs, but Grotto's an optimist."
Grotto, who'd followed me inside and ordered his own beer, shrugged. "Season ain't over yet. Besides, you seen what happened to the Yankees last month? Anything can happen."
We spent the next forty minutes trading increasingly strained observations about sports trivia. I found myself glancing at my watch more frequently as noon approached, eager to get this over with.
Finally, the hour arrived. Turk and Grotto polished off their drinks, and we all filed out to the van. Unfortunately, traffic was pretty stop-and-go once we got moving, turning what should have been a twenty-minute drive into a crawling journey through Manhattan's congested streets.
As we sat in traffic, I found myself oddly comforted by the familiar rhythm of New York gridlock. The honking horns, the muttered curses from other drivers, the steam rising from manholes...some things really were constants across dimensions. Even with superheroes flying around, people still had to deal with rush hour traffic and construction delays.
"At least the radio still works," Grotto muttered, fiddling with the dial. Static filled the van until he found a station playing something that sounded like Huey Lewis and the News.
Through the windshield, I watched pedestrians hurrying past on the sidewalks, briefcases and purses clutched tight. Office workers heading home, shop clerks finishing their shifts, students with backpacks. All of them looked exactly like they would in any version of New York. The mundane reality of daily life persisted even in a world where super humans were a fact of life.
My ponderings on the nature of the multiverse were shattered by a tremendous crash about three blocks ahead. A figure in a distinctive quilted yellow costume came tumbling through the air, arms windmilling wildly before smashing through the window of what looked like a small electronics shop. Sparks and glass exploded outward as car alarms began wailing in a cascading wave down the street.
A few seconds later, another figure emerged from between two buildings. This figure moving with predatory grace in a green costume and a yellow mask. If the mask hadn't clued me in, the exposed chest would have. It was Iron Fist.
"Shit," Turk said, craning his neck. "That's the Shocker getting his ass kicked. Again."
The Shocker. That explained the distinctive quilted pattern. As I watched, the Shocker stumbled out of the electronics store, shaking his head groggily. Iron Fist stepped onto the sidewalk, then began advancing toward his opponent.
"Money says the Fist puts him down in under two minutes," Grotto said.
However, instead of a panicked retreat, the Shocker planted his feet and raised both gauntlets, the distinctive whine of his vibro-shock units building to a higher pitch and bellowed something, I couldn't hear what it was.
Iron Fist responded by launching himself forward in a spectacular leap, his right fist beginning to glow. The strike was aimed perfectly - until a panicked businessman carrying a briefcase stumbled directly into Danny's path, fleeing the superhuman confrontation.
Danny twisted midair to avoid the civilian, his form-perfect technique suddenly compromised as he had to pull his punch to avoid hitting an innocent bystander. The glowing fist that should have connected with Shocker's helmet instead swept past harmlessly as Iron Fist landed off-balance.
Before he could recover, Schultz fired his vibro-units at point-blank range.
The devastating blast caught Iron Fist full-force in the side, sending him tumbling across the sidewalk like a rag doll. His body hit the concrete with a sickening thud that made me wince even from three blocks away, residual vibrations making him convulse before he went completely still.
"Huh." Grotto said. "Welp, if anybody was going to stumble ass backwards into taking down the Iron Fist, might as well be the Shocker."
I stared as Schultz quickly gathered himself and hustled away down a side street, his vibro-shock units still humming with residual energy. I knew the Shocker was often underestimated in the comics, but seeing him actually win? That was something else entirely.
The businessman who'd caused the whole mess had vanished into the crowd the moment the vibro-blast went off. At least some bystanders were approaching the fallen hero. From what I could see as we crawled past in traffic, thankfully Iron Fist appeared to be breathing.
The rest of the drive was mercifully uneventful, though it took nearly forty-five minutes longer than expected due to the traffic snarl. By the time we reached the Meatpacking District, the sun was starting to sink toward the horizon, casting long shadows between the industrial buildings.
Looking around as we drove through the neighborhood, I couldn't help but think about how different this place would become in my original timeline. In the 1980s, it was exactly what the name suggested, a gritty industrial area full of slaughterhouses and packing plants. The kind of place where you minded your own business and didn't ask too many questions about what was happening in the warehouses after dark.
By the 2000s in my world, it had been completely transformed into boutique hotels and designer stores. It was almost stranger than seeing a superhero fight to see the Meatpacking District with actual industry.
"Here we are," Grotto announced, pulling up next to a particularly anonymous-looking warehouse. The building was maybe four stories tall, red brick with small windows, looking like it had been there since the 1920s. No signs, no company names, just a street number barely visible next to a heavy steel door.
"This is it?" I asked, grabbing two of the duffel bags while Turk took the third.
"Don't judge by appearances," Turk replied. "Guy we're meeting has been in the business longer than both of us combined. Just because he doesn't advertise doesn't mean he ain't professional."
The interior was about what I'd expected—concrete floors, exposed brick walls, the lingering smell of machine oil and old cigarettes. Our footsteps echoed as we walked past stacks of wooden crates and covered machinery toward a pool of light in the center of the space.
The arms dealer was sitting behind what was obviously a folding table someone had dragged in for the occasion. Middle-aged, dark hair going gray at the temples, wearing a simple button-down shirt and slacks. He looked utterly unremarkable.
But what made me pause in the doorway wasn't the dealer himself. It was the figure standing behind him.
Whoever it was was wearing a full suit of powered armor. It was very sleek, predominantly silver and blue. The helmet had a mirrored visor that completely concealed the wearer's face, and the whole ensemble had that particular aesthetic that screamed "high-tech mercenary."
It rang a bell somewhere in the back of my mind, but I couldn't quite place it. The design felt familiar, like something I'd seen in the comics before, but the specific details weren't clicking into place. All I knew for certain was that anyone standing guard in powered armor probably wasn't just there for show, and I ratcheted my opinion of the arms dealer up a notch. If he could afford a body guard like this, he definitely wasn't some chump.
"Gentlemen," the dealer said without getting up, his accent carrying just a hint of New York Italian. "You must be Grotto's friends. Please, have a seat." He gestured to a pair of folding chairs that had been set up across from the table. "I understand you have some merchandise to discuss."
"Good afternoon," I said, settling into one of the folding chairs. "I have some hardware I'd like to move. Ten M-16A1s in excellent condition, plus two energy rifles."
The dealer's eyebrows rose slightly. "Energy weapons?" His eyes flicked to the armored figure behind him, then back to me. "Let's take a look at the M-16A1's first."
I unzipped the first duffel bag, carefully lifting out one of the M-16A1s. The dealer leaned forward, examining the rifle without touching it.
"May I?"
I nodded and handed it over. He immediately pulled the charging handle back, checking the chamber was clear, then let it snap forward with a satisfying metallic click. His movements were practiced, efficient—clearly someone who'd handled plenty of firearms.
"Clean," he murmured, running his thumb along the receiver. He flipped the rifle over, examining the serial numbers, then peered down the barrel from the chamber end. "Very clean. Military select-fire, well-maintained."
"Bore's in excellent condition," he said, tilting the rifle toward the light to get a better look down the barrel. "No pitting, rifling's sharp. These haven't seen much use."
He shrugged. "Market's flooded with military surplus. I can move these for maybe six hundred each - that's six grand for the lot."
I tried not to wince at the lower-than-expected price. "Six hundred seems... light for military select-fire."
The dealer shrugged, setting the M-16 down on the table. "You're new to this, kid, so you wouldn't know. But military-grade ballistics? They're a dime a dozen these days."
He gestured vaguely around the warehouse. "Market's different now. Back in the day, proper military kit used to be hard to get hold of. Now?" He shook his head. "That whole conspiracy Nixon was part of - the Secret Empire thing - they wanted instability, so they started flooding the streets with hardware. They started with government armories, but then they started importing arms."
The dealer leaned back against a crate. "At first it was inside jobs at military bases, stuff 'falling off trucks.' But that gets noticed when entire crates go missing from Fort Dix. Too much heat."
He pulled out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. "So they got smart. Set up import channels - Eastern Bloc stuff through Canada, South American routes mixed in with drug shipments. By the time law enforcement caught on, there were enough weapons in circulation to arm half of Brooklyn." He lit the cigarette. "Secret Empire's gone, but the imports infrastructure they built? Still here, still working."
Grotto nodded knowingly. "My cousin works at a dock in Jersey. Said they were moving crates of rifles like they were TVs."
The dealer shrugged. "Yeah, military grade AR's are pretty common on the NYC black market."
He paused and took a deep drag of his cigarette.
"Energy weapons, though? That's a different story entirely. Those don't get smuggled in shipping containers or stolen from Army depots. Too specialized and expensive to make, plus would attract too much heat. The ballistic stuff?" He gestured dismissively at the M-16. "That's just good to have. I'm willing to pay a bit of a premium because these are full autos in good condition, as opposed to some beat up AR-15s."
He turned to me again. "Now show me these energy rifles."
I pulled out one of the SHIELD plasma rifles. The sleek black rifle seemed to absorb the warehouse's dim lighting.
The armored figure shifted slightly, the first movement I'd seen from them.
"SHIELD issue," the dealer said softly, leaning forward with genuine interest. "Now this is worth talking about. Energy weapons are a bit of a rare bird, especially SHIELD ones."
"Heckler & Koch PEW-2," the dealer said, running a gloved finger along the weapon's housing. "Plasma Energy Weapon, second generation. The Germans got the SHIELD energy rifle contract back in '75 when Stark Industries was too busy with the helicarrier program to bother with infantry weapons. Then Stark got out of weapons, so..." His voice trailed off as he hefted the rifle, testing its balance.
"H&K reverse-engineered some energy weapons they got from somewhere, then spent three years making them reliable enough for field use. SHIELD ordered about two thousand of these before the program got shuffled around in the bureaucracy."
The armored figure leaned forward slightly, clearly interested.He set the rifle down carefully. "SHIELD was happy with these until Hammer Industries and Oscorp got into that legal pissing match over patent infringement on the magnetic bottling systems. Lawyers got involved, contracts got frozen, and SHIELD decided they didn't want to deal with the headache." He shrugged. "Their loss, our gain."
He gestured dismissively. "Most of what you see with street gangs are those AIM energy weapons they buy directly from their local AIM cell. Unlike the ballistic stuff, energy weapons don't just 'fall off trucks' - if some punk on the corner's got a plasma pistol, he bought it from whatever AIM operation is running in his neighborhood. Quality's all over the map depending on which mad scientist built them. AIM doesn't do assembly lines - they've got brilliant lunatics tinkering away, each one convinced they can improve on the core concept."
The dealer's tone grew more professional. "Now, the ones that come through the Targo Corporation, those are decent quality. Targo's got proper manufacturing standards, consistent specs. It's not entirely run by scientists, so the specs for the rifles aren't changing every other month based on someone's latest theory. Course, everyone in the business knows Targo's an AIM front company."
He was quiet for a long moment, clearly calculating. "Two grand each, firm. That's four grand for both."
Turk whistled low. "Ten grand total. Not bad, considering this is your first sale."
I shrugged. "I'll take your price Mr..." The arms dealer smiled, "Scaletta.". He extended his hand to shake on it.
At that exact moment, the wall of the warehouse exploded.
Concrete chunks and twisted rebar flew inward as a miniature tornado tore through the building's side. The industrial lights swayed wildly, casting dancing shadows across the scattered weapons. In the eye of the vortex floated a figure in a blue and white costume with a stylized yellow swirl on the chest.
"Bon jour, mes amis," the figure called out with a distinct French accent. "I hope you will forgive my lateness."
Oh fuck. It was the first Cyclone.
My mouth was bone dry. I suppressed my hand shake through sheer force of will. This was someone who had gone toe to toe with Spider-Man, even if he was a D-Lister, he had more than enough power to turn me into mulch.
Three men in dark suits stepped through the hole in the wall behind him, spreading out to cover the exits. Maggia muscle.
Cyclone landed gracefully in the center of the warehouse, his personal tornado dissipating. He looked directly at Turk and smirked.
"Ah, Monsieur Barrett. Your tongue, it is as loose as ever, non? Our man at Josie's has very good hearing." The costumed villain shook his head in mock disappointment. "Bragging about moving energy weapons to Monsieur Scaletta and a new contact to provide them... tsk tsk. How gauche."
Turk's face was utterly frozen in shock. "I didn't... I was just..."
"Just what?" Cyclone's accent made the rebuke sound almost playful, but his eyes were utterly devoid of laughter.
Scaletta was slowly reaching for something behind the crates. "This doesn't concern the Maggia at all, Cyclone." His power armored bodyguard was slowly rolling his shoulders at the same time, and the whine from what I assumed was the armor's power pack grew more aggressive.
"Vraiment?" Cyclone turned his attention to the arms dealer, his smile widening. "Monsieur Scaletta, you think we do not know of your... difficulties? The shipping containers that go missing? The suppliers who suddenly find better offers elsewhere?" He gestured mockingly.
Scaletta's jaw tightened. "That was you bastards."
"Naturellement. We preferred to indirectly interdict the supply of arms to the lesser criminal organizations. But now you try to deal with this amateur..." He glanced dismissively at me. "This cannot stand."
One of the Maggia soldiers spoke up: "We're makin an example."
Cyclone smiled, raising his hands slightly. The air in the warehouse began to stir.
"Précisément. And I do so enjoy providing... comment dit-on... demonstrations for the slow students who require more... tactile instruction